SUPPLEMENT 


KNOX  COLLEGE  BULLETIN 


GALESBURG,  ILLINOIS 


GEORGE  FITCH 

KNOX  '97 


Series 


12 


Number  3 


"Mever  in  tKe  world  a  sweeter,  saner,  more  generous 
and  lovable  human  being." 

—  Franklin  P.  Adams  in  N.  Y.  Tribune. 


GEORGE  FITCH 

A  MEMORIAL 


Published  b>> 

KNOX  COLLEGE 

Galesburg,  Illinois 
1918 


//'  *f*rtcd 


GEORGE  HELGESEN  FITCH 

Born  in  Galva,  Illinois,  June  5,  1877. 
Entered  Knox  College,  1894. 
Graduated  from  Knox,  1897. 

Worked  on  Galesburg  Evening  Mail  and  Republican-Register,  1897- 

1898. 

Edited  Galva  News,  1898-1901. 
Edited  Fort  Madison  Republican,  1901-1902. 

"Frolic  of  the  Types"  column  in  Council  Bluffs  Nonpareil,  1902- 

1905. 

Married  Clara  Gattrell  Lynn  at  Kansas  City,  Mo.,  Oct.  5,  1904. 
Peoria  Herald-Transcript,  editor  and  special  writer,  1905-1911. 

"Vest  Pocket  Essays"  and  other  special  work  for  the  Adams  News- 
paper Syndicate,  1911-1915. 

Elected  to  Illinois  Legislature,  1912. 

Special  writer  for  Collier's  Weekly,  1914-1915. 

Author  of: 

"The  Big  Strike  at  Siwash" — Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  1909. 
"Golf,  The  Automobile,  Bridge  Whist" — Collier's,  1909. 
"At  Good  Old  Siwash"— Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  1911. 
"My  Demon  Motor  Boat" — Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  1912. 
"Sizing  Up  Uncle  Sam" — Frederick  Stokes,  1914. 
"Homeburg  Memories" — Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  1915. 
"Vest  Pocket  Essays" — Barse  &  Hopkins,  1916. 
"Petey  Simmons  at  Siwash" — Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  1916. 
"The  Twenty-four"— Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  1917. 

Contributed  to  Ladies'  Home  Journal,  The  American  Magazine,  Col- 
lier's Weekly,  Saturday  Evening  Post,  Red  Book,  Hampton's, 
Success,  Munsey,  etc. 

Died,  Berkeley,  California,  August  9,  1915. 


George  FitcK 

By  STRICKLAND  GILLILAN 


A  good  friend  journeyed  to  a  better  place. 

I  smiled  while  yet  the  tears  were  on  my  face, 

It  would  have  pleased  him  (maybe  did — who  knows?) 

To  see  me  smile  at  his  earth-sojourn's  close. 

He  had  so  striven  to  teach  the  world  to  smile — 

Should  we  forget,  in  such  a  little  while? 

The  chiefest  reason  for  the  smile  I  gave 
Was  not  alone  that  he  would  have  me  brave, 
But  that  I  reveled  in  the  thought  that  he 
Had  known,  in  life,  he  had  the  love  of  me — 
I  had  not  waited  till  he  went  away 
To  say  the  kind  things  I  with  truth  could  say. 

So  I  am  glad — not  that  my  friend  has  gone; 
But  that  the  earth  he  laughed  and  lived  upon 
Was  my  earth,  too ;  that  I  had  closely  known 
And  loved  the  lad,  and  that  my  love  I'd  shown. 
Tears  over  his  departure  ?    Nay,  a  smile 
That  I  had  walked  with  him  a  little  while. 


SrwasK  and  Knox 

By  WILLIAM  EDWARD  SIMONDS 

I've  just  re-read  the  Siwash  stories,  those  inimitable  narratives, 
generously  embellished,  to  be  sure,  with  the  hyperbole  of  under- 
graduate fun  but  also  pungent  with  good-humored  satire  and  alive 
with  the  healthy  spirit  of  American  college  life.  What  college- 
trained  man  can  follow  without  many  a  smile  and  chuckle  these 
broad  burlesques  of  campus  incidents  and  types ;  fraternity  intrigues 
and  initiations ;  the  battles  on  the  gridiron  and  the  exploits  of  foot- 
ball giants  like  Ole  Skjarsen;  the  escapades  that  become  tradition 
and  grow  more  and  more  sensational  with  the  years ;  the  hero-wor- 
ships, and  the  friendships  that  tighten  in  memory  even  when  inexor- 
able Life  separates  us  one  from  another?  We  all  know  how  it  is.' 
Petey  Simmons,  Allie  Bangs,  Keg  Rearick,  Hogboom,  captain  of  the 
team,  Mark  Smith,  the  serious-minded, — we  knew  them  when  we 
were  in  Siwash,  or,  for  that  matter,  we  knew  them  when  we  were  at 
Hambletonian  or  Middledorfer,  or  Kiowa.  It's  astonishing  how 
many  college  men  in  the  U.  S.  were  at  Siwash  and  affectionately 
claim  it  as  their  alma  mater. 

But  that's  a  special  privilege  of  us  Knox  men,  in  spite  of  what 
the  beloved  chronicler  himself  has  to  say  in  the  preface  of  one  of  his 
books.  Siwash  grew  into  the  great  American  college  under  Fitch's 
administration ;  that's  all.  We  know  that  it  was  founded  here  on  the 
Illinois  prairie — "and  Siwash  is  only  half  a  day  from  Chicago  by 
parlor  car!"  All  the  old  grads  have  heard  about  the  sewer  racket 
that  used  to  be  practiced  out  on  Losey  Street  where  the  highway 
crosses  the  little  run  in  the  hollow.  Why,  Knox  men  still  rendezvous 
at  the  Horse  Shoe  Cafe ;  the  present  generation  has  a  college  song 
in  its  honor.  The  old  army  muskets  with  which  the  cadets  used  to 
drill,  and  which  filled  the  heart  of  the  Reverend  Ponsonby  with 
terror,  will  not  be  lightly  dismissed  from  the  memory  of  the  men 
who  bore  their  weight  in  the  college  ranks.  "Browning  Hall?" 
Well,  we  call  it  Whiting  Hall ;  it's  the  sunshine  of  Siwash  that  gives 
it  a  .brunette  complexion.  We  did  use  to  draw  our  partners  by  lot 
for  class  parties  in  the  good  old  days,  although  we  secure  our 


"dates"  now  in  more  sophisticated  fashion.  Even  in  the  nineties  we 
still  followed  the  traditional  lottery  plan.  It  worked  all  right — 
usually.  Of  course -this  method  broke  up  all  "close  corporations." 
This  was  Pauline  Spencer's  experience  at  the  time  of  the  junior 
party.  Frankling  was  the  "steady,"  and  she  drew  Slaughter.  "His 
father  had  a  dairy  at  the  edge  of  Jonesville  and  Slaughter  decided 
that,  as  the  night  was  cold  and  rainy,  a  carriage  would  be  appro- 
priate. So  he  scrubbed  up  the  milk  wagon  thoroughly,  put  a  lot  of 
nice,  clean  straw  on  the  floor,  hung  a  lantern  from  the  top  for  heat 
and  drove  her  down  to  the  party  in  state.  She  was  game  and  didn't 
make  a  murmur,  but  Frankling  made  a  pale-gray  ass  of  himself." 
This  is  a  matter  of  Knox  history ;  if  the  real  name  of  the  ingenious 
youth  wasn't  Slaughter,  it  was  the  next  thing  to  it.  And  Frank 
Hinkley,  who  went  bail  for  the  boys  when  the  police  asserted  final 
authority,  and  who  was  the  editor  of  the  city  daily,  and  just  con- 
valescing from  four  years  of  college  life,  really  was — and  some 
pages  farther  on  in  this  magazine  tells  us  how  George  Fitch  began 
his  journalistic  career  as  a  reporter  for  that  same  daily.  In  the 
chapter  "Runaway  Oratory"  Gnothautii  and  Adelphi  appear  in 
their  own  composite  personalities ;  and  that  ancient  rivalry — which 
echoes  yet,  though  feebly — strives  again  in  all  its  former  strength. 
The  Shi  Delts,  the  Fli  Gams  and  the  Eta  Bita  Pies  are  with  us  yet, 
although  we  may  not  have  identified  the  Alfalfa  Delts,  the  Chi  Yi 
Sighs,  or  the  Sigh  Whoopsilons  with  any  of  the  mystic  brotherhoods 
more  recently  installed. 

But  Knox  College,  after  all,  does  not  care  to  deprive  any  sister 
institution  of  her  share  in  the  glory  of  Siwash.  The  genius  of  Fitch 
made  the  atmosphere  and  spirit  of  that  institution  too  typical  and 
too  comprehensive  to  be  segregated  on  the  Galesburg  campus.  What 
Knox  is  proud  of  is  the  fact  that  George  Fitch  is  one  of  her  sons ; 
that  by  the  quality  of  his  work  as  a  writer  he  won  a  distinct  and  a 
distinguished  place  in  literature,  a  unique  position  among  American 
humorists ;  and  most  of  all  that  in  his  life,  both  public  and  private, 
he  exemplified  standards  and  ideals  which  can  bring  only  honor  to 
the  institution  which  had  a  part  in  the  equipment  and  training  for 
his  work. 


At  Good  Old  SiwasK* 

LITTLE  did  I  think,  during  the  countless  occasions  on  which  I 
have  skipped  blithely  over  the  preface  of  a  book  in  order  to 
plunge  into  the  plot,  that  I  should  be  called  upon  to  write  a  preface 
myself  some  day.    And  little  have  I  realized  until  just  now  the  ex- 
treme importance  to  the  author  of  having  his  preface  read. 

I  want  this  preface  to  be  read,  though  I  have  an  uneasy  pre- 
monition that  it  is  going  to  be  skipped  as  joyously  as  ever  I  skipped 
a  preface  myself.  I  want  the  reader  to  toil  through  my  preface  in 
order  to  save  him  the  task  of  trying  to  follow  a  plot  through  this 
book.  For  if  he  attempts  to  do  this  he  will  most  certainly  dislocate 
something  about  himself  very  seriously.  I  have  found  it  impossible 
In  writing  of  college  days,  which  are  just  one  deep-laid  scheme  after 
another,  to  confine  myself  to  one  plot.  How  could  I  describe  in  one 
plot  the  life  of  the  student  who  carries  out  an  average  of  three  plots 
a  day?  It  is  unreasonable.  So  I  have  done  the  next  best  thing. 
There  is  a  plot  in  every  chapter.  This  requires  the  use  of  upwards 
of  a  dozen  villains,  an  almost  equal  number  of  heroes,  and  a  whole 
bouquet  of  heroines.  But  I  do  not  begrudge  the  extravagance.  It 
is  necessary,  and  that  settles  it. 

Then  again,  I  want  to  answer  in  this  preface  a  number  of  ques- 
tions by  readers  who  kindly  consented  to  become  interested  in  the 
stories  when  they  appeared  in  the  Saturday  Evening  Post.  Siwasli 
isn't  Michigan  in  disguise.  It  isn't  Kansas.  It  isn't  Knox.  It  isn't 
Minnesota.  It  isn't  Tuskegee,  Texas,  or  Tufts.  It  is  just  Siwash 
College.  I  built  it  myself  with  a  typewriter  out  of  memories,  le- 
gends and  contributed  tales  from  a  score  of  colleges.  I  have  tried 
to  locate  it  myself  a  dozen  times,  but  I  can't.  I  have  tried  to  place 
my  thumb  on  it  firmly  and  say,  "There,  darn  you,  stay  put."  But 
no  halfback  was  ever  so  elusive  as  this  infernal  college.  Just  as  I 
have  it  definitely  located  on  the  Knox  College  campus,  which  I  my- 
self once  infested,  I  look  up  to  find  it  on  the  Kansas  prairies.  I  sur- 
round it  with  infinite  caution  and  attempt  to  nail  it  down  there.  In- 


*  The  Preface  to  Mr.  Fitch's  book  is  here  reprinted  with  the  cordial  per- 
mission of  Little,  Brown  &  Company,  publishers  of  "At  Good  Old  Siwash" 
and  "Petey  Simmons  at  Siwash." 


stead,  I  find  it  in  Minnesota  with  a  strong  Norwegian  accent  running 
through  the  course  of  study.  Worse  than  that,  I  often  find  it  in  two 
or  three  places  at  once.  It  is  harder  to  corner  than  a  flea.  I  never 
saw  such  a  peripatetic  school. 

That  is  only  the  least  of  my  troubles,  too.  The  college  itself  is 
never  twice  the  same.  Sometimes  I  am  amazed  at  its  size  and  per- 
fection, by  the  grandeur  of  its  gymnasium  and  the  colossal  lines  of 
its  stadium.  But  at  other  times  I  cannot  find  the  stadium  at  all,  and 
the  gymnasium  has  shrunk  until  it  looks  amazingly  like  the  old 
wooden  barn  in  which  we  once  built  up  Sandow  biceps  at  Knox.  I 
never  saw  such  a  college  to  get  lost  in,  either.  I  know  as  well  as 
anything  that  to  get  to  the  Eta  Bita  Pie  house,  you  go  north  from 
the  old  bricks,  past  the  new  science  hall  and  past  Browning  Hall. 
But  often  when  I  start  north  from  the  campus,  I  find  my  way 
blocked  by  the  stadium,  and  when  I  try  to  dodge  it,  I  run  into  the 
Alfalfa  Delt  House,  and  the  Eatemalive  boarding  club,  and  other 
places  which  belong  properly  to  the  south.  And  when  I  go  south  I 
frequently  lose  sight  of  the  college  altogether  and  can't  for  the  life 
of  me  remember  what  the  library  tower  looks  like  or  whether  the 
theological  school  is  just  falling  down  or  is  to  be  built  next  year;  or 
whether  I  ought  to  turn  to  my  right  and  ask  for  directions  at  Prex- 
ie's  house,  or  turn  to  my  left  and  crawl  under  a  freight  train  which 
blocks  a  crossing  on  the  Hither,  Yonder  and  Elsewhere  Railroad. 
If  you  think  it  is  an  easy  task  to  carry  a  whole  college  in  your  head 
without  getting  it  jumbled,  just  try  it  a  while. 

Then  again,  the  Siwash  people  puzzle  me.  Professor  Grubb  is 
always  a  trial.  That  man  alternates  a  smooth-shaven  face  with  a 
full  beard  in  the  most  startling  manner.  Petey  Simmons  is  short  and 
flaxen-haired,  long  and  black-haired,  and  wide  and  hatchet-faced  in 
turns,  depending  on  the  illustrator.  I  never  know  Ole  Skjarsen 
when  I  see  him  for  the  same  reason.  As  for  Prince  Hogboom,  Allie 
Bangs,  Keg  Rearick  and  the  rest  of  them,  nobody  knows  how  they 
look  but  the  artists  who  illustrated  the  stories ;  and  as  I  read  each 
number  and  viewed  the  smiling  faces  of  these  students,  I  murmured, 
"Goodness,  how  you  have  changed!" 

So  I  have  struggled  along  as  best  I  could  to  administer  the  af- 
fairs of  a  college  which  is  located  nowhere,  has  no  student  body,  has 
no  endowment,  never  looks  the  same  twice,  and  cannot  be  reached 
by  any  reliable  route.  The  situation  is  impossible.  I  must  locate  it 
somewhere.  If  you  are  interested  in  the  college  when  you  have  read 
these  few  stories,  suppose  you  hunt  for  it  wherever  college  boys  are 

10 


full  of  applied  deviltry  and  college  girls  are  distractingly  fair; 
where  it  is  necessary  to  win  football  games  in  order  to  be  half-way 
contented  with  the  universe ;  where  the  spring  weather  is  too  won- 
derful to  be  wasted  on  College  Algebra  or  History  of  Art ;  and 
where,  whatever  you  do,  or  whoever  you  like,  or  however  you  live, 
you  can't  forget  it,  no  matter  how  long  you  work  or  worry  after- 
ward. 

There !     I  can't  mark  it  on  the  map,  but  if  you  have  ever  wor- 
ried a  college  faculty  you'll  know  the  way. 

GEORGE  FITCH 

July,  1911 


National  Politics  at  Knox  in  1896 

By  WILLIAM  MATHER  LEWIS,  Ex-'OO 

THE  political  campaign  of  1896  at  Knox  was  an  event  of  more 
than  passing  importance ;  not  only  did  it  mark  the  overthrow  of 
standpat  Republican  methods,  it  likewise  dragged  the  shrinking 
T.  R.  from  the  obscurity  of  the  New  York  police  office  into  the 
White  House  lime  light  and  brought  George  Fitch  into  prominence 
as  a  newspaper  cartoonist. 

When  a  College  mock-election  was  proposed  it  appeared  on  the 
surface  that  the  Republicans  in  the  student  body  were  overwhelm- 
ingly in  the  majority.  However,  Presson  Thomson,  George  Fitch 
and  J.  L.  Lewis,  aided  and  abetted  by  a  number  of  fervid  "preps," 
got  their  heads  together  with  the  laudable  purpose  of  correcting  such 
a  deadening  condition  and  organized  what  was  known  as  the  Feder- 
alist Party,  choosing  Roosevelt  to  run  against  McKinley. 

The  Republicans  went  into  the  campaign  with  all  seriousness. 
Hon.  John  R.  Tanner  and  other  political  lights  addressed  their  mass 
meetings  and  real  brass  bands  discoursed  near-music.  The  Fed- 
eralists, loyal  to  the  plain  living  (if  not  to  the  high  thinking  tradi- 
tions of  Knox)  realized  that  imported  spell  binders  and  professional 
musicians  were  beyond  their  means  and  so  decided  to  reach  the  great 
voting  public  in  a  less  costly  way. 

Each  night  thereafter  until  the  close  of  the  campaign  a  self- 
elected  editorial  staff  would  labor  long  and  loudly  in  the  production 
of  a  daily  paper,  copies  of  which  were  struck  off  on  a  mimeograph 

11 


and  placed  in  the  hands  of  the  students  each  morning.  On  the  front 
page  of  this  fleeting  publication  there  always  appeared  a  drawing 
with  the  word  Fitch  scrawled  in  the  lower  right  hand  corner.  Those 
of  us  who  are  fortunate  enough  to  possess  a  file  of  that  crude  little 
sheet  still  chuckle  as  we  behold  the  collapse  of  the  Republican  ele- 
phant and  the  glorification  of  Teddy  so  graphically  pictured  by 
Fitch. 

There  is  no  question  that  these  humorous  sketches,  even  more 
then  than  the  barrel-house  methods  used  on  election  day,  were  re- 
sponsible for  the  great  Federalist  victory  which  was  thus  immor- 
talized in  the  Swan-song  of  the  paper  on  the  "morning  after." 

"Little  folded  ballots 
Falling  in  the  box 
Show  the  world  that  Willie 
Cuts  no  ice  at  Knox." 

Dear  old  George  Fitch,  sans  coat  and  collar,  crowded  in  the 
corner  of  an  eight-by-ten  bed  room  drawing  for  dear  life  while 
around  him  the  staff  "chortles"  over  its  own  wit.  Thus  I  see  him 
still  and  wonder  if  perchance  a  little  turn  of  fate  might  not  have 
made  him  a  famous  cartoonist,  as  nature  and  nobility  of  character 
made  him  a  loved  writer, — a  writer  who  lived  better  than  he  wrote. 

Ye  Book  III  of  Ye  CKronicles* 

AND  IT  CAME  TO  PASS  in  the  days  of  Ernest,  surnamed 
Tilden,  that  the  men  of  Adelphi  were  inspired  with  a  mighty 
desire  to  dabble  in  politics  and  straightway  they  gat  themselves  over 
against  the  east  wing  of  the  Alumni  Hall  even  unto  the  Gnothautians 
and  unto  the  Zeteticians  and  the  E.  O.  Dans,  and  said,  "Let  us  hold 
an  election  after  the  manner  of  the  mighty  men  of  our  land."  And 
it  was  so  that  the  plan  seemed  good  unto  the  Gnothautians,  the 
Zeteticians  and  the  E.  O.  Dans,  and  they  did  straightway  arrange 
the  preliminaries  thereof. 

Now  they  that  were  called  Republicans  were  mighty  above  all 
others  and  they  did  greatly  rejoice  saying,  "Surely  there  shall  be  to 
us  a  walk-over."  And  each  one  did  thereupon  wager  his  talent  that 
there  might  be  returned  to  him  two  talents.  But  there  were  in  the 
Republican  camp  two  that  held  themselves  aloof  and  did  say,  "Ver- 


*  In  the  '97  Gale,  Mr.  Fitch  had  this  lively  narrative  of  the  political 
campaign,  described  in  the  article  by  Mr.  Lewis. 

12 


ily  our  brethren  are  become  corrupt.  Let  us  go  hence  and  seek 
strange  gods." 

Now  the  thing  was  told  in  the  ears  of  Thomson,  the  second, 
called  Tomec,  and  he  straightway  fell  a  musing  about  the  space  of  a 
chapel  talk.  And  Tomec  arose  and  girded  up  his  loins  and  said, 
"Go  to,  now.  I  would  fain  go  Democratic  by  a  large  majority,  were 
it  expedient.  But  that  those  men  of  Belial,  the  Republicans,  triumph 
not  over  us  utterly,  I  am  resolved  what  I  will  do."  So  Tomec 
went,  and  joined  the  reformers,  and  they  took  unto  themselves  Clay- 
berg  and  Lewis,  called  Jakey,  and  Bill  his  brother.  So  these  men 
did  privily  lurk  for  the  unwary  of  the  Republican  fold  and  they  did 
beguile  many  by  their  craftiness  from  the  straight  and  narrow  way 
of  their  fathers.  And  they  raised  over  themselves  a  new  banner, 
and  on  it  a  new  name.  And  they  called  themselves  Federalists  and 
Roosevelt,  the  policeman,  was  their  leader. 

Now  there  was  in  the  ranks  of  the  Republicans  one  Cardiff,  a 
mighty  man  of  valor,  wise  in  all  the  learning  of  the  politicians.  Now 
when  Cardiff,  which  is  also  called  Pat,  heard  of  what  was  done,  he 
was  wroth,  and  swore  with  an  exceeding  great  cuss.  And  he  lifted 
up  his  voice  on  high  and  called  mightily  unto  all  the  Republicans  to 
stand  fast  and  quit  themselves  like  men.  Yea,  he  did  verily  organize 
his  forces,  and  Latimer  of  the  town  of  Abingdon  was  set  over  them, 
and  they  did  write  upon  their  banner  the  name  of  McKinley,  a  wise 
man  of  the  East.  Moreover,  Cardiff  did  bestir  himself  and  sought 
out  one  John,  a  Tanner,  a  man  much  honored  among  the  Republi- 
cans of  the  country,  who  should  make  his  men  a  speech.  Likewise 
did  Latimer,  which  is  called  Johnny,  also  call  upon  one  Carr  which 
had  sojourned  in  a  far  country  and  was  accounted  wise  by  the  towns- 
folk, and  upon  others  of  fame  in  the  land  which  did  teach  and  ex- 
hort with  many  and  divers  words. 

Now  Tomec  and  his  men  had  seen  the  doings  of  Cardiff  and 
they  did  also  get  into  the  push.  For  they  did  publish  a  paper  on 
each  day,  in  the  morning,  in  the  which  were  said  many  things  both 
true  and  false  which  should  bring  down  laughter  upon  the  heads  of 
Cardiff  and  his  men. 

So  the  day  set  for  the  voting  drew  on  apace.  And  when  it  was 
fully  come,  then  did  Tomec,  in  fear  lest  his  men  were  not  enough, 
gather  in  many  from  the  highways  and  hedges.  And  the  men  of 
Cardiff  also  sought  how  they  might  bring  to  naught  the  purposes  of 
the  Mugwumps.  So  the  battle  began.  And  it  was  equal  for  a  time. 
Nor  could  any  say  to  whom  it  would  go.  But  when  the  men  of  Car- 

13 


diff  were  hard  pressed  by  the  new  men  of  Tomec  which  he  had  gath- . 
ered  in,  then  did  Ernest,  which  is  called  Tilden,  swear  a  great  oath 
and  bring  in  many  men  of  divers  races  that  they  might  overcome  the 
hordes  of  Tomec.  Howbeit  when  the  battle  was  come  to  an  end  it 
was  so  that  the  men  of  Tomec  had  slain  more  than  the  men  of  Car- 
diff. And  Cardiff  groaned  with  a  great  groan  and  rent  his  clothes 
and  did  sit  in  sackcloth  and  ashes.  And  Tilden  did  kick  himself 
with  no  small  vigor  that  he  had  sworn  in  vain. 

But  the  men  of  Tomec  raised  a  great  shout  and  did  run  to  bear 
the  tidings  to  the  city.  And  Thomson  which  is  called  Tomec,  and 
Fitch  the  postmaster's  son,  and  Bill  the  brother  of  Lewis  which  is 
called  Jakey,  did  neither  eat  nor  sleep  until  they  had  gotten  out  an 
edition  of  the  Federalist  with  a  rooster  on  it. 

Here  endeth  the  chronicle.     Selah. 

PAGES  -17  AND  48  OF  THE  1897  GALE 


George  FitcK 

By  WILBUR  D.  NESBIT 

Dead !   With  the  laugh  still  on  his  lips  ! 

Dead?   With  a  jest  on  his  last  breath! 
Ah,  but  the  joy  that  brimmed  his  quips 

Laughed  in  the  empty  face  of  death. 

Dead?   Is  the  sunshine  hidden  quite 

Through  the  dull  cartain  blinds  and  bars? 

No !   He  is  laughing  in  the  night, 
Lending  new  gladness  to  the  stars. 


Reporting  for  One  Evening  Mail 

By  FRANCIS  H.  SISSON,  '92 

IT  was  my  privilege  to  be  associated  with  George  Fitch  in  both  his 
start  and  finish  as  a  daily  newspaper  man.  While  I  was  editor  of 
the  Galesburg  Evening  Mail,  in  the  late  '90's,  a  slender  and 
physically  unimpressive  youth  forced  himself  upon  me  with  the  re- 
quest that  he  be  given  the  position  on  our  staff  as  correspondent  in 
Knox  College.  He  introduced  himself  as  the  son  of  his  father, 
whom  I  knew  as  editor  of  the  Galva  News,  and  explained  to  me  his 
ambition  to  be  a  writer  if  possible. 

He  failed  to  impress  me  with  this  first  request  for  a  position, 
but  he  persisted  in  the  idea  throughout  his  college  year,  dropping  in 
occasionally  to  call  upon  me,  evidently  loving  the  smell  of  printers' 
ink  and  longing  to  live  in  its  atmosphere.  His  persistence,  his  evi- 
dent sincerity,  and  his  family  background  finally  won  him  his  wish, 
and  George  Fitch  became  the  Knox  College  correspondent  of  the 
Galesburg  Evening  Mail  as  his  first  daily  newspaper  assignment. 

He  was  not  at  first  a  particularly  good  news  gatherer  or  news 
writer.  His  handwriting  was  quite  illegible  and  his  typewriting 
almost  as  bad,  so  it  required  a  considerable  measure  of  patience  on 
my  part  to  struggle  along  with  what  seemed  like  rather  unpromising 
material.  But  the  boy's  modest,  gentle  spirit,  sweet  sense  of  humor, 
and  quaint  outlook  on  life  rather  won  me  and  I  kept  him  at  his  job 
with  such  guidance  as  I  was  able  to  give,  but  with  more  or  less  in- 
different results. 

He  was  much  more  interested  in  the  humor  and  the  color  of  the 
life  about  him  than  in  collecting  and  narrating  its  prosaic  facts. 

The  summer  vacation  came  on,  and  as  he  was  handy  I  kept  him 
on  the  staff  as  a  regular  reporter — and  again  with  only  ordinary  re- 
sults. He  found  it  difficult  to  get  names  and  initials  and  all  the  little 
petty  details  of  small  city  journalism  accurately  fixed  in  his  mind. 
His  interest  was  elsewhere — in  the  people  and  events  themselves, 
which  he  was  slowly  learning  to  interpret. 

He  was  such  an  agreeable  companion,  so  distinctly  original  in 
his  views  and  comment  on  things  in  general,  that  his  presence  in  the 
office  was  always  a  pleasure,  and  I  had  the  undefined  sense  that  here 

15 


was  a  mine  of  unexplored  riches  which  somehow  I  ought  to  be  able 
to  tap.  I  remember  recalling  the  historic  incident  when  Editor 
Stone  of  the  Peoria  Transcript,  discharged  Bob  Burdette  as  a  cub 
reporter  on  his  staff  because  Bob's  sole  news  contribution  from  his 
morning  "beat"  was  a  picturesque  story  of  a  dog  fight;  and  that  Bob 
Burdette,  joining  the  staff  of  the  Burlington  Hazvkeye,  made  that 
newspaper  famous  and  prosperous  for  a  generation. 

There  came  a  day  when  the  Afro-American  Bicycle  Riders  of 
the  middle  west  held  a  racing  meet  on  the  famous  Williams  Race 
Track  in  Galesburg,  which  at  that  time  held  the  world's  trotting 
and  pacing  records.  Not  regarding  the  event  of  sufficient  news  value 
to  waste  a  "good"  reporter  on  it,  I  sent;  George  Fitch,  with  more  or 
less  indifference  as  to  the  result. 

That  night  he  laid  a  story  on  my  desk  that  I  never  shall  forget. 
It  broke  the  spell  of  the  daily  grind  and  brought  to  me  with  a  start 
the  sudden  realization  that  here  was  a  new  American  humorist.  His 
story,  printed  as  written,  was  a  sensation,  and  his  efforts  were  im- 
mediately detached  from  the  dull  routine  of  weddings  and  funerals 
and  assigned  to  work  for  which  his  unusual  gifts  adapted  him. 

In  the  journalistic  atmosphere  which  had  produced  Eugene 
Field,  Bob  Burdette,  S.  S.  McClure,  John  S.  Phillips,  and  Earnest 
Calkins,  George  started  a  "column"  of  original  verse,  anecdotes, 
comment,  and  humor,  which  was  soon  the  talk  of  the  town  and  of 
observing  editors  far  and  wide. 

I  left  Galesburg  and  George  left  Galesburg.  His  work  as  a 
paragrapher  continued  successfully,  but  I  saw  larger  possibilities  in 
store  for  him  and  a  few  years  later  invited  him  to  become  editor  of 
the  Peoria,  111.,  Transcript,  in  which  I  had  an  interest.  There  he 
began  to  come  into  his  own,  not  only  as  an  editor,  but  as  a  writer  of 
humorous  narrative  and  philosophy  about  the  people  and  places  he 
had  come  to  know  so  well. 

One  day  there  appeared  in  his  paper  a  column  story  of  the  pre- 
sentation of  "Parsifal"  by  the  Chicago  G'and  Opera  Company.  It 
was  a  humorous  classic.  I  sent  a  clipping  to  the  editor  of  the  New 
York  Sun,  and  it  was  reprinted  by  that  paper  on  the  editorial  page 
next  day  and  widely  copied.  It  was  evident  that  George  Fitch  was 
coming  to  his  own  and  that  here  was  a  new  writer  of  unusual  talent 
knocking  at  the  doors  of  public  recognition. 

It  was  my  pleasure  to  suggest  the  faith  I  had  in  his  possibilities 
to  several  New  York  magazine  editors,  who  were  quick  to  realize  his 

worth  and  began  to  bid  for  his  work. 

• 

16 


To  what  heights  lie  might  have  attained  had  longer  life  been 
granted  him,  I  shall  not  undertake  to  say,  but  I  believe  there  was  no 
successful  writer  of  his  day  who  so  intimately  understood  and  who 
so  skillfully  interpreted  the  great,  simple  life  of  the  Middle  West, 
its  people,  and  its  institutions,  as  George  Fitch. 

Not  only  did  his  friends  and  literature  suffer  irreparable  loss  in 
his  death,  but  his  country  also.  The  same  intense  loyalty  which 
characterized  his  friendships  was  found  in  his  love  for  his  country 
and  its  institutions,  which  was  reflected  in  an  almost  passionate  de- 
votion to  every  cause  and  movement  that  he  believed  made  for  pro- 
gress. 

For  those  of  us  who  knew  him  well,  the  memory  of  his  simplic- 
ity, sincerity,  and  sweet  sanity  will  always  remain.  He  was  destined 
to  do  great  things  in  literature  and  life,  to  be  one  of  America's 
greatest  humorists,  and  one  of  her  most  useful  citizens. 


WKy  Humorists  are  TKin 

(The  London  Lancet  expresses  the  opinion  that  all  humorists 

are  thin) 

They  say  ye  humorist  is  thin 

And  eke  of  bony  frame, 
That  he  can  never  hope  to  win 

Both  fleshiness  and  fame, 
His  laugh  may  ring  in  merry  tones 
Yet,  though  he  serves  both  huts  and  thrones, 
He's  just  a  wilderness  of  bones 

A  starting  through  the  skin. 

Folks  wonder  how  a  funny  theme 

An  antifat  can  be 
And  yet  forsooth  it  doesn't  seem 

So  very  strange  to  me, 
For  though  he  writes,  his  bread  to  win, 
He's  paid  in  laughs  instead  of  "tin," 
Good  God !   Ye  humorist  is  thin 

Because  he  has  to  be ! 

—By  George  Ftich,  "Froilcs  of  the  Type" 

n 


"  Frolics  of  $ie  T$pe 


SO  far  as  I  know,  the  earliest  writings  of  George  Fitch  to  receive 
publication  between  covers,  are  to  be  found — and  it  may  be 
difficult  now  to  find  them — in  two  thin  volumes  bound  in  sober  black 
with  gilt  lettering  on  the  front,  entitled,  "Frolics  of  the  Type." 
These  two  booklets  contained  selections  from  the  "column"  which 
Fitch  was  then  conducting  in  the  Nonpareil,  together  with  para- 
graphs and  sketches  contributed  by  him.  I  remember  that  as  he 
gave  them  to  me  he  said  he  had  had  them  printed  for  some  unfor- 
tunate, a  cripple,  I  believe,  who  made  his  living  by  selling  copies  on 
the  trains  in  and  out  of  Council  Bluffs.  The  "Frolics"  were  George's 
contribution  to  philanthropy.  While  there  is  little  of  importance  in 
these  pages  some  interest  attaches  to  them  as  examples  of  Mr. 
Fitch's  early  newspaper  work,  and  now  and  then  a  flash  of  charac- 
teristic wit  gives  promise  of  the  humor  of  later  years.  A  few  of 
these  early  sketches  are  therefore  included  here. 

W.  E.  S. 

INTERVIEW  WITH  WU 

The  Frolics  Man  had  a  short  interview  with  Wu  Ting  Fang 
yesterday  while  that  dignitary  was  passing  through  the  town.  While 
not  of  national  import  the  result  was  exciting  enough  to  make  inter- 
esting reading. 

"How  do  you  do,"  said  Wu  when  the  F.  M.  had  introduced  him- 
self. "So  you  are  a  newspaper  man,  are  you?  How  much  do  you 
get?" 

The  weekly  total  was  named, 

"Not  enough,  not  enough,"  said  Wu  impatiently.  "How  do  you 
support  your  family?" 

The  F.  M.  confessed  that  he  had  neglected  to  acquire  that  lux- 
ury. 

"No  family!"  said  Wu  in  some  amazement.  "Tut,  tut,  young 
man,  you're  old  enough.  Will  no  one  have  you?" 

The  F.  M.  said  with  some  confusion  that  he  didn't  know. 

"The  chances  would  be  against  you,"  said  Wu,  surveying  his 
interviewer  critically.  "But  have  you  asked  no  one?" 

18 


The  F.  M.  was  slowly  frying  in  his  blushes. 

"How  do  you  spend  your  salary  if  you  are  not  married?" 

The  F.  M.  replied  with  dignity  that  he  spent  what  he  could  and 
packed  the  rest  away  in  barrels. 

"You  should  be  married,"  said  Wu  anxiously.  "Promise  me 
you  will  do  it  at  once." 

There  was  an  open  window  handy  but  the  train  was  moving 
across  the  bridge.  The  F.  M.  sank  back  with  a  sigh. 

"Some  one  will  take  you  if  you  persevere,"  said  Wu  cheerfully. 
"Don't  neglect  it  now.  And  tell  them  to  double  your  salary.  You 
will  need  it.  Goodbye." 

Minister  Wu  is  a  delightful  man  but  there  is  an  element  of  per- 
sonality in  his  conversation  that  is  at  times  a  little  embarrassing. 
We  have  complied  with  his  last  injunction,  however. 

OPENED  IT  RIGHT 

The  First  Methodist  church  at  Alton,  111.,  has  been  having  lots 
of  trouble  with  its  new  pipe  organ.  It  is  a  magnificent  new  instru- 
ment, full  of  the  latest  devices  for  praising  the  Lord  in  fortissimo 
and  open  diapason  and  it  cost  $5,000.  At  the  opening  concert  a 
long-haired  genius  from  St.  Louis  presided  at  the  organ  and  in  the 
midst  of  a  pandemonium  in  E  flat  by  Vogner.  he  pulled  out  the  cy- 
clone stop,  the  vox  humana  stop,  turned  on  full  organ  and  opened 
the  16-horse  power  pipe  that  superintends  the  thunder  department. 

It  was  divine.  Women  shrieked  and  fainted,  the  chandeliers 
swung  and  jangled,  and  the  sun  crawled  under  a  cloud  and  stayed 
there  three  hours.  Everyone  said  that  there  had  never  been  such 
Vogner  played  in  Alton.  There  were  crashing,  splitting  effects  in 
it  that  had  never  been  yanked  out  of  a  pipe  organ  before.  It  was 
found  later  on,  however,  that  the  crashing,  splitting  effects  were 
caused  by  the  plaster  in  the  ante-rooms  which  had  given  away  under 
the  strain;  and  the  next  day  the  rest  of  the  handsome  frescoed  in- 
terior fell  with  another  grand,  inspiring  Vognerian  bang. 

The  Pelee  stop  on  the  organ  is  now  nailed  down  securely  and 
the  women  of  the  church  are  giving  ice  cream  socials  and  oyster 
suppers  in  order  to  raise  money  for  frescoing  purposes.  And  they 
do  say  that  the  program  at  the  next  concert  will  be  so  light  and  airy 
and  pin  pointy  that  "Rock  of  Ages"  would  sound  like  a  Polish  riot 
beside  it,  and  the  Alton  people  who  gather  on  the  outside  of  the 
church  to  hear  the  program  free  of  charge  will  go  away  in  disgust. 

19 


WHEN  ADAM  WAS  A  BOY 

(By  Willie) 
Each  day  I  go  to  Sunday  School 

And  there  it's  lots  of  fun 
To  learn  about  what  Adam  did 
Back  when  the  world  begun. 

I'd  like  to  bin  that  Adam  kid; 

He  was  a  lucky  chap, 
Why,  he  could  do  jest  as  he  pleased, 

Say!   Wasn't  that  a  snap? 

He  didn't  have  no  grandma  old 
To  shake  her  head  and  say, 

"When  I  was  young,  the  gals  and  boys 
Got  whippings  every  day." 

When  he  was  sick  no  neighbors  came 
And  stroked  his  head  and  sighed, 

And  said,  "My  dear,  you  look  just  like 
My  little  boy  that  died." 

He  didn't  have  no  brother  small 
To  squall  with  all  his  might, 

And  make  him  stay  and  rock  him  when 
The  ice  was  "out  of  sight." 

He  didn't  have  no  brother  big 

To  fill  him  full  of  woes 
And,  hully  gee  !   He  didn't  have 

To  wear  his  pa's  old  clothes. 

No  sister  big  to  box  his  ears, 
No  aunt  to  make  him  work, 

No  pa  to  tan  his  jacket  when 
At  school  he  chanst  to  shirk. 

He  bossed  himself  fr'm  morn  till  night, 
My  !   Wouldn't  that  be  joy  ! 

I'll  tell  you  things  was  diff'runt  then 
When  Adam  was  a  boy ! 

20 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  OLD  MAN 

My  dear  Henry:  Your  request  for  $35  for  a  suit  for  evening 
wear  so  that  you  can  join  the  glee  club  has  been  received  and  filed 
away  in  a  cool  place  where  it  will  keep.  You  never  had  any  trouble 
in  wearing  your  middle-of-the-day  clothes  at  night  here  at  home, 
my  boy,  and  I  guess  you  will  have  to  keep  right  along  in  the  same 
old  rut  for  a  while.  I  am  getting  so  that  I  do  not  dare  to  go  out 
except  at  night  when  my  clothes  don't  show  up  so  plainly  and  I 
guess  I  am  next  in  line  for  a  new  suit. 

It  seems  to  me,  Henry,  that  if  you  labored  as  earnestly  at 
your  lessons  as  you  do  at  joining  clubs,  you  would  not  be  put  to  the 
necessity  of  knocking  your  teacher's  eye  out.  Only  last  week  you 
asked  me  for  money  for  several  golf  clubs,  whatever  they  are.  I 
don't  see  why  you  should  want  to  join  more  than  one  club  of  the 
same  sort.  Don't  you  ever  get  mixed  up  and  give  the  wrong  pass- 
words? Ezra  Toots  was  thrown  out  on  his  head  from  the  Masonic 
hall  last  week  for  trying  to  get  in  on  the  password  of  the  Select  and 
Delirious  Knights  of  Sobriety. 

We  would  like  to  supply  you  with  clothes  for  evening  wear  and 
breakfast  wear  and  late-in-the-afternoon  wear  but  tired  nature  has 
called  a  halt.  Two  months  ago  you  wore  a  pair  of  pale  blue  overalls 
morning,  afternoon  and  evening  and  between  times,  and  you  would 
have  worn  them  to  church  if  we  had  let  you.  If  you  keep  on  at  your 
present  gait,  Henry,  I  fear  that  you  will  need  an  asbestos  robe 
sometime. 

Your  mother  is  sending  you  to-day  by  express  a  very  satisfac- 
tory garment  for  evening  wear.  If  you  will  put  it  on  about  9  p.  m. 
when  you  are  through  studying,  and  then  wiggle  in  between  the 
sheets  of  your  humble  cot  and  use  the  night  for  sleeping  purposes 
we  will  be  pleased  and  proud.  She  has  taken  a  good  deal  of  care 
with  the  garment  and  has  ruffled  it  all  around  as  you  notice.  Don't 
be  afraid  to  use  it  extensively.  We  will  send  you  another  when  this 
one  wears  out.  Affectionately, 

YOUR  FATHER 

A  VERY  BAD  CASE 

Consider  now  briefly  the  fate  of  a  man  when  the  snow  cometh. 
He  riseth  up  while  it  is  yet  early  and  diggeth  911  yards  of  pathway 
about  the  premises.  When  he  cometh  in  he  hath  chilblains  and  a 
frozen  ear  which  swelleth  up  like  unto  an  overripe  tomato. 

21 


Then  he  goeth  up  to  the  town  and  wadeth  through  two  feet  of 
snow  that  his  neighbor  hath  left  upon  the  sidewalk. 

His  overshoe  cometh  off  and  his  feet  become  compassed  about 
with  ice  and  behold,  as  he  passeth  a  building  a  hired  varlet  upon  the 
roof  thereof  overturneth  a  small  avalanche  of  snow  upon  him. 

When  he  cometh  unto  his  office  he  hath  wet  feet  and  sniffles  and 
it  rejoiceth  his  heart  (selah)  to  find  that  there  is  a  leak  in  the  roof 
just  over  his  desk. 

When  he  cometh  home  he  passeth  divers  small  boys.  Where- 
upon, with  one  accord,  they  salute  him  with  great  joy  and  frozen 
snowballs. 

His  new  hat  is  knocked  seven  ways  for  Sunday  and  as  he  turn- 
eth  to  speak  reproachfully  he  mislayeth  the  sidewalk  which  was 
under  his  feet. 

When  he  cometh  to,  it  is  under  his  right  ear. 

He  also  findeth  that  he  is  sitting  upon  20  cents  worth  of  eggs 
with  a  $25  overcoat  and  that  he  hath  splintered  his  spine  and  broken 
seven  commandments  to  say  nothing  of  the  eggs.  As  he  reacheth 
home  he  striketh  the  spot  where  little  Willie  hath  poured  water  on 
the  step  and  lo !  he  sigheth  for  more  commandments  to  break. 

When  he  entereth  the  house  he  is  shooed  out  with  a  broom  be- 
cause of  the  snow  on  his  boots. 

Later  on  his  wife  telleth  him  that  the  gutters  are  full  of  ice  and 
the  water  pipes  are  frozen  and  that  Sallie,  the  hand-maiden,  hath 
gone  sleigh  riding,  and  that  Thomas,  the  son,  hath  fallen  under  a 
bob  sled  and  hath  spoiled  $7  worth  of  clothes. 

After  supper  he  picketh  up  a  paper  and  findeth  a  poem  on 
"Beautiful  Snow,"  and  lo !  he  forgetteth  the  fate  of  blasphemers 
and  sayeth  many  things  with  a  great  noise. 

THE  FAT  MAN  IN  SUMMER 
(In  answer  to  1,000,000  inquiries:   "Why  don't  you  get  fat?") 

The  sun's  bright  rays  come  blazing  down 

Aslant; 
The  small  dogs  droop  about  the  town 

And  pant, 

While  gloomily  each  fat  man  hot 
Mops  off  his  brow  and  says,  "Great  Scott!" 
And  tries  to  find  a  cooler  spot, 

But  can't. 

22 


The  sweat  rolls  off  his  forehead  brown, 
In  drops; 

His  polished  collar  wilts  and  down- 
ward flops; 

Unbound,  his  broad  expanse  by  vest; 

In  shirt  and  trousers  he  is  dressed, 

But  for  one  thing  he'd  shed  the  rest — 
The  cops. 

He  limps  on  aching  and  dejected  feet, 
He  melts  away  'till  he's  a  wreck 

Complete ; 

Upon  his  doleful  way  he  goes, 
Encased  in  soaked  and  soggy  clothes, 
And  brightly  red  each  feature  glows 

With  heat. 

Ah,  who  would  be  a  fat  man  when 

'Tis  hot? 
Or  strive  to  make  two  hundred-ten 

His  lot? 

To  puff  and  pant  and  wish  that  he 
Were  dead  and  out  of  misery 
Ah,  do  we  wish  for  flesh  ?   Well,  we 
Guess  not. 


THE  "J'INER" 

Augustus  Henry  Thompson  was  to  fellowship  inclined, 

He  loved  to  meet  in  mutual  love  with  brothers  true  and  kind. 

There  were  so  many  orders  that  it  seemed  too  hard  to  choose, 

So  he  joined  the  whole  assortment  and  hustled  for  the  dues. 

He  belonged  to  twenty  brotherhoods,  had  hopes  of  twenty  more, 

And  he  had  to  stretch  his  manly  breast  to  hold  the  pins  he  wore. 

He  was  a  Modern  Woodman  and  a  knight  of  high  degree 
In  the  temple  of  the  Masons  and  likewise  the  K.  of  P. ; 
He  was  an  Elk  and  Eagle  and  a  Red  Man  bold  and  brave, 
And  once  a  week  an  evening  to  the  Maccabees  he  gave; 
He  has  joined  the  A.  O.  H.'s  and  the  jolly  J.  I.  G.'s, 
And  had  in  an  application  to  the  great  R.  S.  V.  P.'s. 


It  took  Augustus  Henry  lots  of  time  to  do  it  right, 
For  he  was  a  loyal  lodgeman  and  he  never  missed  a  night. 
He  was  Chief  Sublime  Tarara  in  the  Royal  Happy  Herd ; 
He  was  Rajah  of  another  bunch,  and  Pooh-Bah  of  a  third; 
He  had  swords  to  arm  a  legion  and  regalia  by  the  mile — • 
It  kept  Augustus  humping,  but  he  did  the  thing  in  style. 

Yes,  he  was  a  valiant  lodgeman,  and  it  was  with  genteel  woe 
That  his  brothers  heard  of  his  demise,  a  month  or  so  ago. 
Poor  Thompson  met  a  tragic  end.    One  evening,  it  appears, 
He  was  sick  and  went  home  early  for  the  first  time  in  ten  years ; 
And  when  his  wife  awoke  and  found  him  standing  by  the  bed, 
She  thought  it  was  a  burglar,  and  she  shot  Augustus  dead. 


JOHN  HENRY  AT  THE  DENTIST'S 

Last  night  while  I  was  off  behind  the  Samoan  islands  some- 
where dreaming  about  35  knots  an  hour,  something  grabbed  me  by 
a  nerve  in  the  base  of  my  jaw  and  yanked  me  back  to  the  United 
States  and  up  against  the  head  of  my  bed.  It  was  worse  than  ten 
thousand  shipwrecks.  I  held  an  investigation  and  found  a  large 
molar  on  the  rear  balcony  of  my  upper  jaw  in  a  state  of  violent 
eruption.  It  would  ache  steadily  for  about  two  minutes  and  would 
then  give  a  throb  that  would  jerk  me  half  way  over  the  foot  of  the 
bed.  It  was  very  painful  indeed.  I  sat  up  all  night  holding  onto 
my  jaw  and  reciting  little  selections,  both  sacred  and  profane. 

This  morning  when  I  looked  in  the  mirror  I  found  myself 
bulged  all  out  of  shape.  Still  I  was  relieved.  During  the  night  I 
thought  that  the  tooth  was  about  four  feet  in  circumference  and  red 
hot.  However,  the  bump  on  my  jaw  isn't  much  bigger  than  a  cob- 
blestone. I  am  going  down  to  the  dentist's  this  afternoon  and  have 
him  talk  to  the  tooth  with  his  little  gas  tongs.  I  love  my  teeth  as 
well  as  anyone,  but  I  can't  sit  up  with  this  one  another  night. 


I  took  my  inflated  tooth  up  to  the  dentist  to-day  and  submitted 
it  to  him  for  inspection.  Of  course  the  usual  thing  happened.  Just 
as  I  struck  the  top  step  leading  to  the  office  I  found  that  I  had  mis- 
laid the  toothache  on  the  way.  However,  I  wasn't  to  be  fooled. 
There  was  only  one  stairway  and  I  knew  it  would  be  waiting  for  me 
at  the  bottom.  So  I  went  in.  I  was  bitterly  disappointed.  The 
dentist  was  there  and  had  nothing  to  do.  It  was  almost  a  personal 

24 


affront.  If  it  had  been  anyone  but  Jenkins  who  knows  me  I  would 
have  passed  myself  off  as  a  bill  collector. 

The  dentist  crowded  me  into  his  little  old  undersized  barber 
chair  and  tilted  me  over  until  he  could  see  the  rafters  of  my  mouth. 
Then  he  took  a  steel  crochet  hook  and  felt  around  the  tooth  until  he 
found  a  spot  that  made  me  try  to  jump  over  the  instrument  tray. 
This  seemed  to  satisfy  him.  At  least  he  stopped  prodding  and  told 
me  I  would  have  to  have  the  tooth  filled;  that  it  was  probably 
clamped  around  my  jaw  and  could  not  be  pulled  without  bringing 
out  more  of  my  back  bone  than  I  could  spare.  He  really  didn't  have 
to  apologize  for  not  pulling  it  but  he  seemed  to  think  so. 

I  am  to  come  back  to-morrow  at  3  and  have  an  18-carat  gold 
filling  put  in.  I  was  for  silver  without  the  consent  of  any  other  na- 
tion on  earth,  but  he  said  no.  Gold  would  be  better.  In  the  mean- 
time he  is  killing  the  nerve.  This  is  a  mistake,  I  think.  I  haven't 
any  too  much  nerve  anyway  and  it  has  been  failing  steadily  ever 
since  I  made  the  date.  Teeth  are  a  confounded  bore.  Sometimes 
I  envy  the  hen  even,  though  she  has  no  educational  advantages. 


The  nerve  in  my  tooth  passed  away  this  afternoon.  I  never 
saw  anything  die  so  hard.  It  began  its  death  struggle  shortly  after 
I  got  home  yesterday  afternoon  and  every  jump  jarred  my  medulla 
oblongata.  Picture  if  you  can  a  forty-acre  melon  patch  full  of 
cholera  morbus  with  a  little  strychnine  mixed  in  and  then  crowd  all 
that  pain  down  into  one  small  2x4  tooth !  It  writhed  and  squirmed 
all  night,  pulling  me  over  the  foot  of  the  bed  a  couple  of  times  and 
only  passed  into  a  comatose  condition  early  this  afternoon.  It's 
wonderful  what  a  rumpus  a  little  nerve  can  kick  up  when  it  is  irri- 
tated. I  have  nicknamed  this  nerve  "Senator  Smoot." 

When  I  landed  at  the  dentist's  this  afternoon  he  was  very  sym- 
pathetic. The  nerve  was  dead,  he  said,  and  now  the  rest  was  easy. 
First  he  would  drill  into  me  about  a  foot,  he  said,  and  pull  out  the 
nerve  and  then  he  would  enlarge  the  chasm  and  build  me  a  beauti- 
ful monument  of  gold — enough  of  it  to  salt  a  Utah  mining  claim.  It 
would  be  very  easy  he  told  me.  Then  he  asked  me  to  please  open 
my  mouth.  I  had  it  opened  so  wide  that  my  front  teeth  had  become 
tangled  with  the  back  of  the  chair,  but  he  didn't  seem  to  notice  it. 

Picking  out  a  drill  with  a  nasty  looking  burr  on  the  end,  my 
friend,  Mr.  Jenkins,  turned  on  the  motor,  made  a  flourish  and  started 
to  work.  First  he  bored  a  perpendicular  shaft  down  through  the 
tooth  into  my  neck.  I  tried  to  tell  him  to  look  out  or  he  would  dull 

25 


his  augur  on  my  collar  button,  but  I  got  my  tongue  on  the  buzzer 
and  decided  not  to  talk  any  more.  It  would  be  his  loss  anyway  and 
I  didn't  give  a  durn  what  happened  to  him.  Just  as  I  had  given  up 
hope  he  pulled  out  the  drill.  I  waited  to  see  him  lower  a  bucket  to 
haul  out  the  debris  but  he  didn't  do  it.  I  asked  him  if  he  had  struck 
any  pay  dirt  yet  and  if  he  thought  my  backbone  had  a  cavity  in  it, 
too.  He  only  smiled. 

"I  was  just  clearing  away  the  decayed  stuff,"  he  said.  "I 
haven't  begun  yet."  Then  he  pulled  up  his  sleeves,  geared  up  the 
motor  a  notch  and  began  to  bore  laterals.  He  would  bore  sideways 
a  foot  or  two  into  my  cheek  and  then  he  would  turn  on  a  cold  blast 
to  see  me  squirm.  Finally  while  he  was  resting  another  patient 
came  in  and  I  escaped.  He  thinks  I  am  coming  in  to-morrow  but  I 
am  not.  I  am  going  to  sub-let  the  job  to  a  prospecting  com — 


I  have  just  returned  from  the  dentist  again.  My  mind  is  wan- 
dering a  good  deal  and  I  do  not  know  all  that  has  happened  but  I 
will  try  to  set  it  down  as  nearly  as  possible. 

When  I  went  back  to  the  dentist  he  was  eight  feet  high  and  had 
fangs  and  a  tail.  He  grinned  at  me,  threw  me  into  a  chair  and 
opened  my  mouth  until  he  could  look  down  and  criticize  the  archi- 
tecture of  my  floating  ribs.  Then  he  brought  out  a  burr  bigger  than 
all  the  others,  rubbed  arsenic,  nitrogylcerin  and  tobasco  sauce  on  it 
and  jabbed  it  into  my  quivering  molar.  He  would  bore  until  the 
drill  got  red  hot.  Then  he  would  soothe  the  tooth  with  ice  water 
and  swab  it  out  with  a  hornet's  nest.  When  he  got  tired  of  boring 
he  would  take  a  cold  chisel  and  hack  away,  talking  cheerfully  mean- 
while, and  ever  and  anon  bringing  up  little  pieces  of  vest  and  back- 
bone with  a  grapling  hook  as  an  evidence  of  good  faith.  He  ran 
laterals,  lower  levels,  entries  and  working  chambers  in  that  tooth. 
He  put  in  a  pump  and  sunk  an  air  shaft.  He  drilled  down  into  each 
root  and  into  the  jaw,  finally  he  gave  a  shout  of  triumph.  "Pay 
dirt,"  he  cried.  But  no.  It  was  only  my  watch  he  had  drilled  into. 

This  made  him  furious.  My  mind  began  to  wander  at  this 
point.  He  threw  away  the  drill  and  took  a  pick.  He  tried  a  hand- 
saw. He  put  in  a  blast.  He  timbered  the  cavity  to  prevent  caving 
and  filled  it  with  boiling  water.  He  enlarged  it  until  he  could  put 
in  his  head  and  look  around.  It  was  full  of  bumble  bees  and  little 
devils  with  red  hot  toes,  each  one  dancing  on  a  nerve.  He  shouted 
with  glee.  He  lined  it  with  corns  and  danced  on  a  nerve.  He 
stirred  up  the  devils  and  bumble  bees  together,  mixed  them  with  re- 

26 


morse  and  forty-rod  whisky,  and  cambric  needles,  and  cactus  thorns, 
and  wall-eyed  tarantulas,  and  then  waded  in  himself  with  a  pitch- 
fork and  three  bomb  shells. 

And  then  I  went  home.    My  hour  was  up. 


The  dentist  finished  my  tooth  to-day.  When  he  had  finished 
drilling  out  the  cavity  he  gagged  me  with  a  sheet  of  rubber  so  that 
I  couldn't  call  for  the  police.  I  waited  for  him  to  back  a  truck  load 
of  gold  down  into  the  cavity  and  send  for  a  pile  driver.  Instead  he 
took  out  a  little  chunk  with  a  pair  of  tweezers.  I  thought  he  had 
drilled  a  hole  as  big  as  a  marble  quarry,  but  it  didn't  turn  out  to  be 
much  bigger  than  a  barrel. 

Jenkins  was  very  gentle  at  first.  He  put  in  a  little  dab  of  gold 
and  beat  it  with  a  toy  hammer.  Later  he  took  a  mallet  and  then  he 
used  a  sledge.  Then  he  took  a  hydraulic  hammer  and  beat  upon  the 
bottom  of  my  brain  pan  until  reason  tottered  on  her  perch.  He  kept 
this  up  until  I  had  figured  that  it  must  be  about  May,  1908.  Fin- 
ally he  stopped. 

"It's  filled,"  he  said. 

I  was  satisfied  and  wanted  to  go  home.  But  he  wouldn't  have 
it.  He  was  a  neat  workman  and  didn't  like  to  do  a  botchy  job.  So 
he  put  an  emery  stone  in  my  mouth  and  ground  down  the  corners. 
Then  he  filed  and  sandpapered  the  tooth  and  went  over  it  with  an 
adz  and  bung  starter.  Finally  he  heated  it  red  hot,  annealed  the 
filling,  welded  it  to  the  roots,  brazed  the  roots  back  onto  the  jaw, 
tempered  the  mainspring,  put  in  a  lightning  rod,  wired  it  for  gas 
and  electricity,  perfumed  and  bug  powdered  it,  tuned  it,  polished  it 
and  put  his  name  plate  in  the  corner.  Then  he  took  his  knee  out  of 
my  stomach. 

"All  through,"  he  said,  "five  dollars." 

I  wanted  to  give  him  five  days  instead,  but  he  insisted  on  the 
money,  so  I  paid  him.  I  carried  my  tooth  home  with  me  and  am 
getting  used  to  it.  I  would  rather  eat  with  a  nail  keg  concealed  in 
my  jaw,  but  I  suppose  this  crowded  out  feeling  will  die  out  after  a 
while.  But  I  am  resolved  on  one  thing.  When  I  awake  with  an- 
other toothache  I  am  going  to  take  an  ax  and  separate  myself  from 
the  tooth. 

JOHN  HENRY 


27 


Vest  Pocket  Essays 

By  GEORGE  FITCH 


CONCERNING  BABIES 

A  baby  is  a  large  volume  of  noise  entirely  surrounded  by  safety 
pins. 

The  baby  itself  is  not  large,  however.  It  rarely  weighs  more 
than  an  unabridged  dictionary,  and  is  very  fragile  to  look  at.  But 
even  the  smallest  baby  can  make  a  noise  which  will  cause  an  old 
bachelor  three  blocks  away  to  tear  the  picture  of  Roosevelt  from  the 
wall,  and  stamp  on  it. 

This  is  because  a  baby  deals  exclusively  in  noise.  He  does  noth- 
ing and  thinks  of  nothing  but  making  noise.  Men  who  have  become 
great  by  sticking  to  one  thing  and  learning  all  about  it,  claim  that 
specialization  is  a  new  idea,  but  for  over  6,000  years  babies  have 
specialized  in  noise  and  their  success  is  more  impressive  than  that  of 
Edison  or  Hans  Wagner. 

Babies  are  very  young  and  have  no  pasts  to  speak  of.  They 
are  greatly  beloved  by  all  who  know  them,  not  because  of  what  they 
say,  but  because  of  what  they  do  not  say.  Babies  do  not  tell  ancient 
stories  to  their  friends  or  give  them  advice,  or  talk  politics  when  they 
want  to  read  a  good  book  or  tell  them  that  the  country  is  going  to  the 
dogs  or  ask  them  for  $5.00  till  pay  day.  As  babies  grow  older,  they 
talk  more  and  lose  a  few  friends  each  year.  A  young  boy  baby  is 
frantically  beloved  by  hundreds  of  women,  but  after  he  is  grown  up, 
and  has  learned  conversation  in  all  its  branches,  he  is  lucky  if  he  can 
keep  one  woman  fond  of  him  long  enough  to  die  married. 

Babies  are  great  diplomats.  A  baby  can  induce  a  strong  man 
to  get  up  at  night  and  prance  all  over  the  place  in  his  pajamas, 
though  the  man  would  positively  refuse  to  do  it  for  his  wife  or  his 
employer,  or  the  President  of  the  United  States.  Men  who  have 
never  sung  a  note  in  their  lives  and  would  fight  at  the  suggestion 
from  anyone  else,  will  sing  half  the  night  when  requested  to  do  so 


This  is  a  typical  Vest  Pocket  Essay  and  is  considered  by  Mrs.  Fitch  as 
perhaps  the  best  of  the  series  Mr.  Fitch  wrote  for  the  George  Mathew 
Adams  Syndicate. 

28 


by  a  mere  baby  with  no  particular  eloquence  at  its  command.  Babies 
are  the  greatest  gamble  in  the  world.  It  costs  $5,000  to  raise  a 
baby,  and  you  never  can  tell  whether  it  is  going  to  be  worth  $5,000 
or  30  cents  when  it  grows  up.  However,  if  it  is  a  girl,  you  can  al- 
most always  find  some  young  man  to  take  a  chance  on  her  in  that 
other  great  gamble — matrimony. 

Babies  are  very  feeble  and  could1  be  completely  demolished  by 
a  strong  man.  Yet  they  often  live  for  95  years,  which  is  more  than 
any  strong  man  can  do.  But  babies  do  not  smoke  cigars,  drink  cock- 
tails or  eat  nineteen  griddle  cakes  at  a  sitting.  Feed  a  baby  on  lob- 
ster Newberg  and  it  would  soon  fade  away.  Strong  men  grow  old 
and  feeble  on  beefsteak,  while  small  babies  grow  big  and  strong  on 
milk  alone.  There  are  three  kinds  of  babies — cow  babies,-  tin  babies 
and  home  talent  babies. 

Babies  are  not  often  given  the  consideration  they  are  entitled 
to.  Among  to-day's  babies  are  the  presidents  of  1960,  the  steel  kings 
of  1950,  the  baseball  stars  of  1940,  the  aviators  of  1930  and  the 
golf  champions  of  1935. 


29 


"Pete"* 

By  GEORGE  FITCH 

One  warm  day  late  in  the  spring  two  years  ago  I  was  walking 
down  the  street  from  my  home  with  an  interior  stuffed  and  distended 
with  dissatisfaction.  Friends  rushed  by  in  new  cars  and  waved 
cheerfully  at  me.  Families  sailed  by  in  old  cars,  happy  and  foot- 
loose. Rich  men  tore  long,  jagged  holes  in  the  atmosphere  in  their 
portable  volcanoes,  and  contented  workingmen  chugged  along  in  cars 
which  they  had  made  themselves  out  of  binder  wheels  and  garden 
hose  and  twine.  The  whole  world  was  on  wheels — excepting  myself. 
I  was  turning  this  bitter  thought  over  and  over  and  getting  more  in- 
clined to  move  to  Mars  every  minute,  when  I  passed  a  man  who  was 
beating  an  automobile  by  the  roadside  with  a  monkey  wrench. 

I  call  it  an  automobile  merely  from  politeness.  Persons  skilled 
in  machinery  could  readily  see  that  it  had  once  been  an  automobile, 
but  the  layman  would  never  have  suspected  it.  It  was  such  a  weary, 
decrepit,  dirty,  ill-kept,  down-trodden  little  brute  that  my  heart  went 
out  with  pity  to  it.  Its  top  was  old  and  ragged.  Its  lamps  were 
broken.  Its  paint  was  gone.  Its  hood  was  bent  in  a  dozen  places. 
Two  tires  were  disintegrating.  Everywhere  it  had  been  repaired 
with  wire.  For  less  than  two  years  it  had  served  its  brutal  master — 
I  knew  him  and  remembered  when  he  bought  it — and  he  had  used  it 
up  almost  as  badly  as  old  Simon  Legree  used  up  Uncle  Tom.  It  was 
pitiful.  The  little  car  was  exhausted,  racked,  almost  unable  to  stand. 
Yet  I  knew  that  as  soon  as  its  owner  had  finished  teating  it  he  would 
drive  it  full  speed  down  the  hard  stone  pavement  again  and  maybe 
run  it  into  a  hitching  post,  as  I  had  seen  him  do  the  fall  before.  As 


*  Mrs.  Fitch  was  asked,  "What  writing  of  George's  do  you  like  best? 
What  did  he  consider  his  best  work?"  She  answered:  "I  suggest  one  of 
the  less  well  known  articles  that  he  wrote,  which  is  a  great  favorite  of  mine. 
It  was  really  the  first  draft  and  blocking  out  of  a  projected  book  on  "Pete." 
There  was  no  special  article  that  we  liked  better  than  another;  generally 
it  was  the  latest  one  which  we  were  fondest  of.  As  a  whole  we  both  con- 
sidered the  "Homeburg  Memories"  as  his  best  work  as  far  as  he  had  gone." 

"Pete"  was  published  in  the  National  Weekly,  January  13,  1913. 

80 


I  watched  him,  my  great  idea  came  to  me.   I  would  buy  this  little  car. 

It  was  a  desperate  idea,  but  I  was  a  desperate  man.  I  was  tired 
of  seeing  second-hand  delight  and  breathing  second-hand  fumes. 
For  years  my  bank  account  had  been  engaged  in  a  stern  chase  witli 
the  price  of  automobiles,  with  the  latter  always  hull  down  ahead. 
Every  time  I  had  saved  $100,  the  price  of  good  cars  had  gone  up 
$250.  On  that  day  I  had  $400  in  the  bank.  It  might  buy  this  little 
ruin  and  kindly  treatment  might  restore  the  car  to  health.  If  I 
couldn't  run  it  I  could  at  least  carry  the  starting  plug  around  and 
pose  as  a  car  owner  among  strangers. 

I  tried  to  resist  my  idea.  But  I  couldn't.  It  had  me  by  the 
throat.  Before  I  knew  what  I  was  doing  I  had  asked  the  man  if  he 
wanted  to  sell  his  car. 

"Sell  this  conglomeration  of  revolving  junk!"  said  he  somewhat 
wildly.  "Say,  if  I  found  anyone  who  wanted  to  buy  this  madhouse 
masterpiece,  this  movable  ruin,  this  four-thousand-degree-in-the- 
shade  parody  on  a  rheumatic  garbage  wagon,  I'd  knock  him  down 
before  he  could  change  his  mind." 

"What  will  you  take  for  it?"  I  asked,  breathing  hard  and 
clutching  my  check  book.  "Will  you  sell  it  for  $300?"  I  asked  ner- 
vously. 

"Three  hund — "  said  the  owner.  Then  he  stopped.  He  seemed 
to  be  fighting  for  breath.  "You — say,  are  you  offering  me  three 
hundred  dollars  for  this  car?" 

I  blushed  all  over.  But  I  really  hadn't  tried  to  cheat  him.  He 
had  a  perfect  right  to  refuse  it.  "I'll  give  you  $400  and  not  a  cent 
more,"  I  said  with  dignity. 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  minute  with  a  far-away  look,  like  a  man 
who  is  fighting  a  great  battle  with  himself.  I  saw  then  that  he  loved 
the  little  car  and  I  felt  sorry  for  him.  But  he  did  not  deserve  to 
own  it  and  I  refused  to  weaken.  I  hauled  out  my  check  book. 

"I'll  let  you  have  it,"  he  finally  said  in  a  smothered  voice.  "If 
I  didn't  take  your  money,  somebody  else  would." 

"I've  got  to  examine  it  first,"  I  said  in  a  businesslike  manner. 

"Go  ahead,"  said  the  owner  dejectedly.  I  walked  around  the 
car  four  or  five  times,  looking  at  it  intensely.  I  counted  the  wheels. 
I  got  into  it  and  grasped  the  steering  wheel.  It  turned  like  a  reg- 
ular wheel.  I  felt  of  the  tires  and  twiddled  the  crank  handle.  Then 
having  exhausted  my  knowledge  of  automobiles,  I  said  I  was  satis- 
fied, and  bought  the  car.  The  owner  bullied  it  into  starting  and 
drove  me  home,  instructing  me  profusely  in  its  disposition  all  the 

31 


way.     I  gave  him  a  check.     He  gave  me  a  receipt  and  went  away, 
leaving  me  a  little  bit  dazed.     He  seemed  a  little  bit  dazed,  too. 

I  was  an  automobile  owner.  Considering  what  I  had  bought, 
this  statement  seemed  presumptuous,  but  I  was  stubborn  about  it. 
Practically  I  was  an  extensive  fool  who  had  spent  his  savings  for  a 

mechanical  invalid. 
But  technically  I  was 
an  automobile  owner 
and  entitled  to  wear 
the  grimy  palm  and 
greasy  trousers  of  the 
craft.  And  as  I  looked 
at  the  mob  of  passing 
cars  I  swelled  up  out 
of  a  mere  sidewalk 
user  into  a  capitalist, 
a  quarry  of  the  police 
and  a  member  of  the 
gasoline  gang.  It  was 
great.  I  was  getting 
my  money's  worth  al- 
ready. 

After  supper  I  went 
out  to  my  car,  set  the  levers  as  I  had  been  instructed,  and  cranked  a 
while.  I  didn't  really  expect  it  to  go,  so  I  wasn't  disappointed  when 
it  didn't.  I  knew  it  would  start  for  anyone  who  knew  anything  about 
cars.  But  I  couldn't  learn  enough  to  start  it  in  several  days  and  I 
realized  that  it  was  going  to  block  traffic  a  good  deal,  standing  where 
it  was.  So  I  called  up  my  brother  who  lived  in  the  other  end  of 
town  and  told  him  I  had  something  interesting  to  show  him. 

My  brother  is  younger  than  I.  In  fact  I  brought  him  up  my- 
self, by  hand  and  foot,  very  carefully.  But  he  knows  more  about 
automobiles  than  I  do  about  anything.  He  was  brought  up  on  auto- 
mobiles. He  has  driven  them,  sold  them,  and  has  helped-  make  them. 
He  diagnoses  sick  automobiles  as  they  pass  in  the  street  and  he  can 
tell  by  looking  into  the  radiator  of  a  car  what  is  the  matter  with  its 
hind  axle.  He  could  not  afford  a  machine  of  his  own  and  the  idea 
occurred  to  me  that  he  might  like  to  drive  mine.  I  would  do  any- 
thing for  my  brother.  I  love  him  dearly.  It  did  me  good  to  think 
of  the  pleasure  he  was  going  to  have. 

When  my  brother  arrived,  I  led  him  out  to  my  car.     He  looked 


GEORGE   FITCH  IN  "PETEY,"  His  FAITHFUL 
ROADSTER 


32 


at  it  a  long  while,  walking  around  it  and  inspecting  it  very  carefully. 
He  was  so  deliberate  it  made  me  impatient. 

"Well,"  I  snapped,  "how  do  you  like  it?" 

My  brother  was  peering  into  the  thorax  of  the  car,  but  he 
emerged  as  I  spoke  and  rubbed  his  head  with  a  puzzled  air. 

"I  don't  see  where  the  cobs  come  out,"  he  said. 

When  I  had  finished  telling  him  that  it  was  an  automobile  and 
not  a  corn  sheller,  he  was  greatly  interested  and  looked  it  all  over 
again.  When  I  told  him  he  could  run  it  if  he  wanted  to,  he  was 
much  pleased.  He  took  off  his  coat  and  borrowed  an  old  pair  of 
trousers  from  me  and  inside  of  ten  minutes  we  were  riding  around 
the  streets,  while  I  watched  every  move  he  made  with  hawklike 
eagerness.  I  didn't  care  to  run  it  any  more,  I  said;  I'd  been  out  all 
afternoon  and  it  was  a  pleasure  to  see  him  handle  the  car.  It  was 
just  a  little  trick  anyway  that  I  had  picked  up  for  amusement.  I 
had  only  paid  $400  for  it. 

When  I  said  that,  my  brother  gave  a  loud  cry  and  fell  over 
backward.  If  I  hadn't  grabbed  the  steering  wheel  we  would  have 
been  dashed  to  pieces  against  the  curb.  He  acted  very  queerly  the 
rest  of  the  evening,  asking  me  repeatedly  if  I  felt  all  right  and  if  my 
head  pained  me.  He  even  asked  me  if  I  thought  $350  would  be  too 
much  for  him  to  pay  for  a  picturesque  old  lawn  mower  which  was 
for  sale  near  his  home.  And  he  seemed  relieved  when  I  asked  him 
if  he  was  crazy. 

The  next  day  I  started  the  car  myself  and  ran  it  around  the 
town  with  all  my  might,  full  of  weird,  jumpy  bliss.  I  don't  mean 
the  car  ran  with  all  its  might.  I  supplied  the  might.  I  killed  the 
car  whenever  I  throttled  it  down  and  cranked  it  about  once  a  block. 
It  limped  and  stuttered,  gurgled,  howled  and  squeaked.  Its  front 
wheels  obeyed  the  steering  wheel  about  as  closely  as  a  fox  terrier 
sticks  to  his  mistress  on  the  street.  The  clutch  only  worked  occa- 
sionally. The  whole  concern  was  one  vast  asthmatic  rattle.  But  I 
didn't  care.  It  ran,  and  more  than  a  hundred  people  remarked  on 
the  fact  with  pleased  surprise.  That  night  I  asked  the  garage 
keeper,  who  was  a  friend  of  mine,  if  he  could  put  the  car  in  good 
order  that  evening.  He  was  an  honest  man,  and  when  we  had  fin- 
ished discussing  the  subject  I  had  a  lot  of  new  knowledge.  At  60 
cents  an  hour  it  would  cost  about  $175  to  put  my  automobile  in  first- 
class  shape.  In  the  meantime  its  diseases  were  acute.  A  little  more 
running  and  it  would  break  permanently  in  a  dozen  places.  I  went 
home  full  of  gloomy  perplexity. 


Of  course  I  might,  by  enrolling  in  a  correspondence  course, 
learn  auto  repairing  in  1,897  lessons  and  rebuild  my  car  myself. 
But  it  would  take  a  year,  and  besides  I  distrusted  my  ability.  I 
had  already  ruined  two  meat  grinders  and  a  baby  buggy  that  spring 
while  repairing  them.  I  might  wait  and  save  the  money.  But  that 
would  take  all  summer.  I  might — and  then  the  only  logical  solution 
struck  me  with  a  bang.  It  was  a  wonder  I  hadn't  thought  of  it  be- 
fore. I  would  lend  the  car  to  my  brother. 

It  was  as  simple  as  wishing  the  job  done.  I  waited  several  days 
and  then  called  Bob  up.  When  I  offered  to  lend  him  the  car  for  a 
week  he  wouldn't  hear  of  it  at  first.  But  I  was  firm.  We  always 
divided  things  up  in  our  family,  I  reminded  him.  I  had  had  a  week's 
use  of  the  car  and  I  couldn't  enjoy  it  unless  he  got  some  fun  out  of 
it  too.  It  would  absolutely  ruin  my  pleasure  unless  he  ran  it  awhile. 
So  when  he  found  I  was  really  in  earnest  he  accepted  thankfully. 
The  next  day  I  ran  the  car  over  to  my  brother's  house  and  left  it. 
Then  I  left  town  for  a  week.  I  had  to  go  away  about  that  time  any- 
way, and  I  didn't  want  my  brother  to  worry  for  fear  I  was  at  home 
pining  for  my  car. 

I  traveled  a  good  deal  that  week,  and  travel  was  never  so  pleas- 
ant before.  I  found  that  by  alluding  casually  to  my  "car"  in  the 
opening  sentence  of  a  conversation  I  could  not  only  win  the  respect 
of  those  who  didn't  have  cars,  but  the  intimate  friendship  of  those 
that  did.  I  found  also  that  I  could  talk  as  grandly  about  my  $400 
car  as  if  it  cost  $5,000  and  was  my  ninth  offense.  I  made  a  lot  of 
friends  on  the  strength  of  it  and  scarcely  set  foot  on  a  sidewalk  all 
week. 

I  was  all  anxiety  to  hear  about  my  car  when  I  returned,  and 
called  up  my  brother  at  once.  I  said  "hello"  to  him  and  inquired 
about  the  auto's  health  in  the  same  breath. 

"Oh,  the  car's  all  right,"  said  my  brother,  "and  I  am  too,  in 
case  you  might  be  interested." 

"Have  you  enjoyed  the  car?"  I  asked  hospitably. 

"Yes,"  said  my  brother;  "it's  been  like  old  times;  only  I  wish 
you  hadn't  come  back  until  to-morrow." 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  you  see,  I  found  a  little  work  to  be  done  on  it  and  I've 
been  fixing  it  up.  I  haven't  had  a  chance  to  run  it  yet." 

And  do  you  know,  that  nervy  brother  actually  wanted  me  to 
wait  a  day  longer  while  he  drove  my  new  car  all  around  the  coun- 
try. That's  the  brother  of  it  for  you. 

84 


When  I  saw  my  car  a  few  minutes  later  I  hardly  knew  it.  My 
brother  had  done  it  a  lot  of  good.  He  had  spent  the  entire  week, 
I  found,  under  it,  on  top  of  it  and  coiled  around  it  in  the  way 
auto  mechanics  have.  He  had  revamped  the  engine,  edited  and  re- 
vised the  magneto,  mitigated  the  exhaust,  reformed  the  clutch,  re- 
suscitated the  carburetor,  manicured  the  tires,  cleaned  the  car  from 
end  to  end,  and  polished  the  brass  work.  And  when  I  took  the 
steering  wheel  and  opened  up  the  throttle  I  found  a  thing  of  life 
under  me,  fighting  for  more  speed,  and  purring  like  a  half-ton  pussy 
cat.  It  was  magnificent.  It  must  be  a  wonderful  pleasure  to  work 
on  a  car  and  bring  it  up  from  a  ruin  to  a  spirited  young  thing  which 
has  to  have  mud  on  its  number  plate  in  order  to  avoid  the  law.  It 
made  me  feel  good  to  think  how  much  my  brother  must  have  enjoyed 
himself.  But  I  was  always  doing  things  for  him. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  a  summer  full  of  joy.  I  have  heard 
of  sick  tigers  who,  when  cured  by  foolhardy  physicians,  have  "become 
the  slaves  of  their  rescuers.  My  little  car  seemed  almost  alive  in  its 
anxiety  to  repay  me.  It  ran,  day  and  night,  with  eagerness.  It 
staggered  pluckily  over  rough  roads,  dug  its  way  out  of  sand  patches, 
and  buzzed  cheerfully  along  through  rain  and  mud.  No  burden  was 
too  great  for  it.  Although  built  for  three,  it  would  carry  six,  and  go 
at  the  Main  Street  hill  as  sturdily  and  confidently  as  if  it  was  carry- 
ing one,  laboring  faithfully  up  on  the  high  gear  and  performing  such 
herculean  efforts  before  it  stopped  with  a  gasp  and  waited  apologeti- 
cally for  me  to  kick  in  the  low-speed  pedal,  that  I  began  to  think  of 
it  as  a  human  being,  and  to  regard  it  with  affection.  In  a  month 
I  had  stopped  calling  it  "here  you"  and  had  given  it  a  name,  a  gen- 
der, and  a  place  in  the  family  circle. 

"Pete"  he  was  after  that,  and  from  that  time  on  the  doings  of 
Pete  during  the  day  were  the  main  subject  of  conversation  at  the 
table  at  night;  and  the  state  of  his  health  on  Sundays  was  a  subject 
transcending  all  others  in  importance. 

Pete  was  our  friend  and  companion.  Pete  carried  us  out  into 
the  country  on  picnics  and  over  the  river  into  the  hills  on  exploring 
tours.  Pete  took  us  to  the  far  end  of  the  town  to  spend  the  evening 
and  waited  patiently  for  us  to  reappear.  Pete  stood  placidly  while 
my  two  little  daughters  swarmed  over  his  seats  and  yanked  at  his 
levers. 

He  usurped  the  place  of  dolls  and  dogs  for  them.  They  loved 
him  because  he  was  a  little  car,  as  children  love  everything  little. 
They  guarded  him  from  the  bad  boys  who  tried  to  "honk-honk"  him. 

85 


They  cluttered  around,  all  anxiety,  while  I  fussed  with  his  internals, 
and  pitied  "poor  sick  Petey."  They  threw  themselves  at  him  with 
shouts  of  joy  whenever  I  went  out  and  cranked  him.  A  hundred 
times  that  summer  my  three-year-old  princess  put  her  arms  around 
my  neck  and  said:  "Oh,  papa,  let's  get  Petey  and  take  a  little  ride." 

Of  course  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  we  didn't  have  troubles.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  Pete  was  continually  disintegrating  somewhere. 
As  he  convalesced  in  his  differential,  he  declined  in  his  radiator. 
When  he  retained  water  in  his  radiator  he  was  generally  enjoying 
paralysis  of  the  oiling  system.  And  when  he  oiled  perfectly,  his 
cranks  as  a  rule  were  working  loose  once  more.  He  also  rattled  in 
twenty  places  and  his  valve  mechanism  was  as  noisy  as  a  small 
thresher.  But  strangely  enough,  this  didn't  worry  me.  I  found  very 
early  a  vast  difference  between  the  owner  of  a  second-hand  car  and 
the  proud  mahout  of  a  next  year's  model.  The  latter  is  worried  and 
depressed  when  any  little  thing  is  going  wrong.  The  former  is  jubi- 
lant and  happy  when  any  little  thing  is  going  right.  So  long  as  Pete 
ran  and  came  home  on  demand,  I  was  happy.  That  summer  and  fall 
I  coaxed,  chevied  and  badgered  him  over  2,500  miles  of  road,  leaving 
behind  me  a  trail  of  bolts,  parts,  discarded  accessories,  and  small 
tools,  by  which  even  a  detective  could  have  tracked  me. 

Not  only  did  Pete  serve  me  and  my  family  all  that  summer,  but 
he  helped  make  my  brother  happy.  Regularly  on  Sunday  afternoons 
we  would  load  up  and  drive  over  to  his  house,  where  my  children 
would  frolic  with  his  children,  and  he  and  I  would  walk  solemnly 
around  the  car  700  times  discussing  it  in  that  intimate  and  personal 
manner  which  experts  and  owners  use.  There  are  more  things  to 
talk  about  in  an  automobile  than  there  are  in  politics.  During  that 
summer  we  talked  Pete  over  carefully  from  the  extreme  rear  edge 
of  his  off  hind  tire,  which  generally  needed  vulcanizing,  to  the  tips 
of  his  headlights,  which  always  needed  cleaning.  And  the  talks  al- 
ways ended  the  same  way.  Bob  would  go  down  cellar,  put  on  his 
war  togs,  and  come  out  with  a  bushel  of  tools.  Then  he  would  pry 
into  the  dank,  greasy  gizzard  of  the  car  and  enjoy  himself  while  I 
stood  by  and  encouraged  him.  These  little  talks  did  Pete  a  world  of 
good.  He  was  always  the  better  for  them.  Owners  who  run  cars 
all  year  round  and  neglect  to  talk  them  over  regularly  with  some 
kind,  sympathetic  friend  who  has  a  knowledge  of  ignition  do  them 
a  great  injustice. 

Sometimes  Pete  developed  so  many  things  to  talk  about  during 
the  week  that  I  could  not  wait  until  Sunday.  Then  I  would  drive 

36 


him  over  and  lend  him  to  Bob  for  several  days  at  a  time,  during 
which  time  Pete  improved  steadily.  It  was  beautiful  to  see  them  to- 
gether. Some  people  are  stingy  with  their  automobiles,  but  I  was 
never  that  way. 

When  the  cold  weather  came  I  put  Pete  away  in  a  barn  for  the 
winter,  and  in  the  spring  an  army  of  automobile  agents  descended 
upon  me  like  Assyrians  surrounding  a  lamb,  or  wolves  attacking  the 
Israelites — I  don't  remember  which  is  historically  correct.  They 
brought  with  them  samples  of  all  the  cars  made  in  America  and 
points  east.  They  offered  me  fabulous  sums  in  trade  for  Pete.  For 
weeks  I  rode  about  in  cars  which  were  mechanically  so  perfect  that 
getting  power  and  speed  was  as  simple  a  proposition  as  turning  on 
molasses  from  a  spigot. 

It  had  been  a  fortunate  winter  for  me  and  I  had  enough  money 
in  the  bank  to  sell  Pete  down  the  river  and  buy  a  dream  of  a  little 
touring  car  which  started  with  a  button  and  would  run  until  election 
day  with  no  care  whatever,  except  providing  new  speedometers  as 
fast  as  the  old  ones  wore  out. 

But  strangely  enough,  I  couldn't  get  interested.  The  perfect 
cars  left  me  cold.  In  a  perfect  car  I  was  only  a  motorneer.  The 
car  supplied  the  brains  and  left  me  only  the  steering  to  do.  Beyond 
mending  a  tire  occasionally  I  couldn't  look  forward  to  a  single  bit  of 
excitement. 

I  couldn't  even  go  over  and  visit  my  brother.  There  would  be 
nothing  to  talk  about.  And  if  I  loaned  him  the  new  car  all  he  could 
do  would  be  to  run  it  around  and  wear  out  the  tires.  Brotherly  af- 
fection is  strong,  but  there  are  limits  to  it. 

As  I  thought  these  things  over  I  began  to  realize  that  I  loved 
Pete.  He  was  more  than  recreation  to  me.  He  was  excitement, 
suspense,  uncertainty,  triumph,  and  a  baffling  mystery  which  I  was 
working  out  bit  by  bit.  He  had  a  personality.  He  had  traits  and 
weaknesses  and  also  strength  of  character.  There  wasn't  a  part  of 
him -which  was  a  stranger  to  me.  When  he  ran  he  was  a  chorus  of 
sweet  sounds  and  rackets.  When  he  stood  still  he  was  a  challenge 
twenty  times  as  interesting  as  a  golf  course. 

So  I  scorned  the  automobile  agents  and  kept  Pete.  I  kept  him 
as  a  companion,  not  as  a  personal  street  car.  And  he  rewarded  me 
by  struggling  pluckily  through  his  fourth  year  of  existence  with 
great  success.  He  took  me  to  town  every  day  and  took  some  friend 
home  with  me  at  night,  said  friend  always  causing  me  to  swell  with 
pride  by  marveling  at  the  way  the  little  brute  clawed  up  the  Main 

37 


Street  hill.  He  took  me  to  Chicago  and  back  without  a  breakdown, 
gasping  home  the  last  few  miles  with  a  rheumatic  magneto,  while  I 
patted  him  and  gloried  in  his  spunk.  Once  he  hauled  for  ten  miles 
the  disabled  six-cylinder  car  of  a  man  who  had  often  alluded  to  him 
with  scorn  as  a  "prehistoric  bang-buggy."  Twenty  times  he  took 
me  through  the  country,  and  brought  me  home  again — breaking 
down  quietly  in  his  garage  half  a  dozen  times  after  his  day's  work 
was  done. 

I  have  grown  proud  of  Pete  as  well  as  fond  of  him.  Hundreds 
of  people  have  said  to  me:  "Well,  you  certainly  have  gotten  a  lot  of 
use  out  of  that  little  mess." 

How  many  owners  of  good  cars  get  the  same  compliments  ?  I  am 
so  proud  of  him  that  I  even  refuse  to  paint  him,  and  his  upholstery 
is  a  disgrace.  I  wish  he  was  six  years  old  instead  of  four.  I  glory 
in  his  age  as  a  son  glories  in  his  73-year-old  golf-playing  father. 

I  have  decided  to  keep  Pete  forever,  replacing  him  as  he  wears 
out.  This  year  he  has  had  a  new  magneto,  carburetor,  front  wheel 
and  oiling  system.  Next  year  he  must  have  a  new  radiator  and  his 
gears  are  worn  razor  sharp.  In  another  year  I  must  get  a  new 
engine. 

It  will  be  expensive,  but  I  will  get  my  money's  worth.  I  will 
still  have  Pete.  I  will  have  him  until  sometime  in  the  distant  future 
his  steering  wheel  will  wear  in  two  and  his  crank  handle  will  disin- 
tegrate. Then  I  will  replace  them  and  suddenly  find  that  after  all 
I  haven't  got  Pete. 

He  will  have  vanished,  bit  by  bit — just  as  I  myself  have  van- 
ished in  the  last  seven  years  and  am  a  new  person,  using  the  old 
name  and  signing  checks  on  the  bank  account  of  my  former  self. 

Perhaps  when  that  day  comes  I  may  lose  interest  in  Pete  and 
sell  him  to  a  museum.  But  I  shall  not  borrow  trouble. 


38 


George  FitcK  Ln)es 

By  EDMUND  VANCE  COOKE 

OUT  of  the  beautiful  Middle  West  in  the  first  decade  of  the  pres- 
ent century,  there  sprang  to  our  notice  a  new  and  a  true  hum- 
orist, by  name  George  Fitch.  It  is  a  rubric  in  the  world's  calendar 
when  a  new  humorist  is  born,  for  the  humorist  is  a  man  with  a  vis- 
ion. He  sees  not  as  other  men  see,  but  when  he  tells  his  vision  to  us 
of  the  dull  eyes,  we  exclaim,  "Of  course !  anybody  can  see  that.  We 
have  always  thought  so  ourselves,  but  somehow  we  forgot  to  mention 
it.  Show  us  something  else  that  we  have  always  seen  and  never 
knew  it." 

The  humorist  complies  and  we  follow  him  gladly,  laughingly 
and  lovingly,  but  then  comes  some  one  with  a  solemn  face  and  a  stri- 
dent voice,  who  speaks  a  wierd  language.  And  those  in  authority 
tell  us,  "Here  is  true  greatnes's.  Observe  the  melancholy  counte- 
nance! Listen  to  the  tragic  tone  of  the  voice!  And  behold !  you 
can  with  difficulty  understand  the  tongue  in  which  he  speaks.  No 
one  may  surely  know  what  he  is  saying.  Is  it  not  sublime?" 

Then  we,  we  turn  aside  from  the  humorist  whom  we  love  and 
can  understand  and  we  say,  "It  must  even  be  so.  The  humorist  is 
too  simple,  too  pleasurable  and  too  easily  comprehended.  This 
Other  is  the  worshipful  one.  Ah,  how  wonderful  must  be  his 
thought,  how  deep  his  meaning;  we  comprehend  him  not  at  all." 

For  my  part  I  am  inclined  to  dispute  the  authorities  flatly.  I 
shall  always  insist  that  the  master  writer  is  one  who  is  crystal  clear, 
without  being  commonplace,  that  comedy  is  higher  than  tragedy, 
that  the  man  who  leads  me  to  the  abiding  joy  in  life  deserves  more 
of  my  thanks  than  the  one  who  depresses  and  confuses  me.  If  this 
be  literary  treason,  make  the  most  of  it. 

That  George  Fitch  came  out  of  the  Middle  West  is  also  indica- 
tive. The  Middle  West  is  the  nursery  of  our  literary  orchards. 
Much  of  its  budded  stock  is  transplanted  early,  but  George  Fitch 
came  to  full  fruition  in  the  soil  which  gave  him  birth.  Here  he  was 
born  and  bred,  here  he  was  educated,  here  he  married  and  reared  his 


*  Written  as  an  introduction  to  "Petey  Simmons  at  Siwash"  for  Little, 
Brown  &  Company,  and  reprinted  at  request  of  Mrs.  George  Fitch. 


THE  FITCH  FAMILY 


family,  here  he  struggled 
and  here  he  achieved.  Born 
in  the  small  town  of  Galva, 
matriculated  and  graduated 
at  Knox  College,  Gales- 
burg,  and  doing  the  bulk 
of  his  life-work  at  Peoria, 
he  may  fairly  be  said  to 
reek  of  the  soil  of  Illinois. 
Yet  human  beings  (espec- 
ially American  human  be- 
ings) are  so  much  alike 
that  the  appeal  of  his  work 
runs  from  horizon  to  hori- 
zon. Homeburg  might  have 
been  in  Maine  and  Siwash 
in  California,  or  in  any 
place  between. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to 
mention  that  Knox  College 
is  not  Siwash  and  Siwash 
is  not  Knox,  but  that  Knox 
is  appreciative  of  the  Si- 
wash  fame  is  attested  by 
the  fact  that  the  real  col- 
lege has  a  chapter  room 
(planned  by  the  "Betas") 
as  a  memorial  to  the  crea- 
tor of  the  fictitious  college. 

Like  so  many  other  writ- 
ers, George  Fitch  came  up 
through  the  stress  and 
grind  of  daily  newspaper 
work.  He  won  his  spurs 
on  the  Galesburg  dailies, 
and  the  Council  Bluffs 
Nonpareil  and  the  Peoria 
Transcript,  and  he  never 
entirely  forsook  the  news- 
paper field,  for  even  at  the 
last  his  Vest  Pocket  Essays 


40 


MRS.  FITCH  AND  CHILDREN 


were  appearing  daily  in  hundreds  of  newspapers.  But  he  was 
more  than  a  newspaper-man,  more  than  a  magazinist,  more  than 
a  maker  of  books.  No  recluse  and  no  cynic,  he  lived  life  in  all  its 

phases.    He  was  a  cit- 

u  TK'W'       TK      izen  who  felt  his  citi~ 

zenship  and  he  took  a 
keen  interest  in  his 
city,  his  State,  his 
country,  just  as  every 
American  should.  Be- 
cause he  thought  he 
ought  to  do  his  part, 
he  served  a  term  in  the 
Illinois  legislature, 
fighting  for  better  government,  though  he  could  ill  afford  the  time 
from  his  literary  labors. 

Best  of  all  his  accomplishments,  he  was  an  ideal  father,  a  tried 
and  true  chum  to  his  children  who  obeyed  him  because  they  loved 
him.  To  build  forts  and  castles  in  the  sand-pile,  to  model  ships  and 
comic  characters  the  neighbors  came  for  blocks  to  see,  to  tell  won- 
derful and  funnily  fearful  bed-time  stories,  were  not  the  least  of 
George  Fitch's  accomplishments,  nor  the  least  to  be  envied  and  de- 
sired. 

These  glimpses  may  give  you  an  inkling  of  how  spirited  a  pub- 
licist, how  companionable  a 
father  and  husband,  how  hon- 
ored a  citizen,  how  well- 
rounded  a  character  was 
George  Fitch  the  man,  aside 
from  the  fame  and  accom- 
plishment of  George  Fitch  the 
author. 

But  no  such  brief  and  hur- 
ried recital  of  a  few  tangible 
and  intangible  facts  can  give 
any  adequate  sense  of  the 
bright  spirit  George  Fitch 
was  to  those  who  knew  him. 
Why  do  I  say  was?  Am  I 
asking  you  to  believe  that  George  Fitch  is  contained  in  the  brief 
years  which  elapsed  between  his  first  breath  and  his  last  sigh? 

41 


THE  LITTLE  FITCHES 
Mary,  11;  Elinor,  9;  Janet,  6 


That  George  Fitch  was  born  June  7th,  1877,  may  be  necessary 
to  record,  but  why?  Why  figures?  All  of  us  know  that  he  was 
born,  and  born  into  a  world  which  needed  him,  which  still  needs  him, 
which  still  loves  him.  What  else  matters? 

That  George  Fitch  died  August  9th,  1915,  I  refuse  to  believe. 
I  pick  up  "At  Good  Old  Siwash,"  "Sizing  up  Uncle  Sam,"  "Home- 
burg  Memories,"  or  any  of  the  books  or  articles  and  in  the  first  sen- 
tence I  can  hear  him  speak.  I  close  my  eyes  and  I  can  see  him,  along 
with  a  dozen  or  a  hundred  other  good  fellows,  none  of  whom  are 
within  reach  of  my  hand-shake  at  this  moment,  but  they  are  some- 
where else  and  by  thinking  of  them,  I  bring  them  to  my  conscious- 
ness. 

Among  them,  George  Fitch  comes  to  me  in  a  variety  of  ways, 
but  chiefly  he  throws  his  arm  across  my  shoulder  and  peers  down 
with  me  at  something  worth  reading.  If  it  is  very  good,  he  looks  up 
appreciatively  and  that  dry,  wide  smile  crosses  his  face  and  dies 
slowly. 

He  does  not  laugh  aloud,  nor  would  I  call  it  a  very  contagious 
smile,  but  it  is  George's  smile  and  that  is  enough.  Why  does  he 
come  to  me  thus  and  throw  his  arm  across  my  shoulder?  He  is  not 
a  very  demonstrative  chap,  for  he  is  just  sensitive  enough  to  be  a 
trifle  reserved.  His  writings  tell  you  that,  I  think.  No  matter  how 
tumultuous  his  fun,  he  always  knows  just  when  to  stop  it,  and  in 
real  life,  I  never  saw  him  tumultuous.  To  my  mind,  the  reason  he 
comes  to  me  in  this  manner,  or  the  reason  that  memory,  or  my  sub- 
conscious self  brings  him  to  me  in  this  manner  is  that  the  attitude  is 
characteristic  of  him,  of  his  literary  rather  than  his  physical  self. 
Surely  in  reading  him,  you  feel  the  comradeship  of  him.  You  feel 
the  touch  of  his  hand  upon  your  shoulder.  You  see  the  slow  flash  of 
his  smile  as  you  lower  the  book  to  throw  back  your  head  and  laugh 
deliciously  at  his  humor.  He  thinks  it  is  good,  too  ?  More,  he  knows 
it  is  good,  for  he  worked  hard  upon  it,  but  he  is  not  the  least  bit  con- 
ceited or  vain  about  it.  No  one  ever  took  success  less  self-con- 
sciously than  George  Fitch.  He  worked  hard  for  it;  he  had  always 
worked  hard  to  do  good  work — just  to  do  good  work! — and  he  was 
still  working  hard  up  to  the  last.  He  felt  that  he  was  just  begin- 
ning. Everybody  else  felt  the  same  way.  Good  as  his  "stuff"  was, 
the  big  work,  the  sustained  work,  the  life  work,  was  to  come. 

No  one  will  ever  know  just  how  big  that  life  work  was  to  be, 
but  it  ranged  all  the  way  from  a  book  on  English  cathedrals  to  stor- 
ies of  boy  psychology,  from  historical  adventure  in  the  Middle  West 

42 


to  studies  of  ancient  Rome.  Nor  were  these  mere  haphazard  dreams. 
Some  of  the  material  was  already  gathered,  some  of  the  plots  were 
planned  and  the  dream  people  had  begun  to  live  in  them.  He  was  a 
systematic  worker  and  knew  the  direction  he  was  going. 

And  now,  just  because  that  bigger  work  isn't  coming,  that's  the 
only  way  I  feel  or  believe  that  George  Fitch  is  dead.  I  always  re- 
call him  as  living.  I  see  him  in  so  many  places,  on  sea  and  land,  at 
home  and  abroad,  and  he  is  always  the  same,  always  quiet,  but  al- 
ways companionable,  in  every  crowd.  I  hear  him- talk  and  whether 
he  talks  to  me  alone  or  to  cheering  audiences,  I  find  no  difference  in 
him.  He  talks  well  and  he  is  always  looking  ahead.  He  is  nearly 
always  humorous,  but  always  more  than  that.  I  think  no  one  would 
ever  accuse  him  of  being  what  is  known  as  a  "funny  man."  He 
seemed  never  to  make  any  bid  for  laughter.  Most  speakers,  espec- 
ially most  humorous  speakers,  have  some  mannerisms  which  run 
along  with  their  words  to  help  make  them  effective.  It  may  be  a 
trick  of  expression,  of  gesture,  of  vocal  inflection,  but  George  Fitch 
used  none  of  these.  He  spoke  directly  and  neither  by  the  twinkle 
of  an  eye  in  advance,  nor  the  suggestion  of  an  over-pause  at  the  end 
of  a  sentence  led  you  to  believe  that  he  had  any  idea  the  speech  was 
humorous.  His  humor  was  as  sincere  as  most  men's  logic. 

I  can  close  my  eyes  at  this  moment  and  see  and  hear  him  do 
this.  Why  should  I  believe  that  he  is  dead?  True,  his  letters  have 
not  reached  me  of  late,  but  then  we  were  both  careless  that  way, 
except  when  something  definite  was  afoot.  True,  he  has  not  been 
to  see  me  lately,  but  then  neither  have  I  been  to  see  him.  Usually 
we  met  because  the  blessed  fates  brought  us  together.  True,  too,  I 
have  not  seen  his  newer  writings.  As  I  said  before,  that  is  almost 
the  only  reason  that  I  fear  that  what  they  say  is  true,  that  George 
Fitch  is  no  more. 

But  then,  I  close  my  eyes  again  and  there  he  is !  How  can  he 
be  no  more,  I  ask  you,  when  I  can  see  him,  aye,  can  feel  him,  as  any 
one  may  feel  him  who  will  read  him  ?  As  for  the  big  work,  let  it  go. 
His  work  is  big  enough.  It  is  a  big  thing  to  have  effected  as  much 
good  cheer  as  is  in  the  writings  of  George  Fitch.  Not  humor  only, 
not  sentiment  merely,  not  only  that  clean,  keen  appeal  to  the  best 
side  of  human  nature,  but  that  lovableness  in  laughter  which  lurks  in 
all  he  does  and  is.  Yes,  I  still  insist  upon  the  present  tense.  I  will 
not  say  George  Fitch  was.  George  Fitch  is. 


13 


EDNA  FERBER — There's  nothing  to  say  about  George  Fitch  ex- 
cept that  he  was  just  as  sane  and  sweet  and  lovable  as  everything 
he  wrote. 

HENRY  J.  FORMAN,  Collier's  Weekly — To  ray  thinking  George 
Fitch  was  one  of  the  most  courteous,  simple  hearted,  and  gallant  of 
writing  men.  He  was  a  fine  American  humorist,  but,  depend  upon 
it,  he  was  even  a  finer  American  man. 

S.  E.  KISER,  Chicago  Herald — Possessed  of  modesty  that  was 
not  assumed  for  the  purpose  of  making  it  appear  that  he  was  eccen- 
tric, George  Fitch  was  an  exemplification  of  the  fact  that  it  is  possi- 
ble to  be  a  genius  and  a  gentleman. 

MEREDITH  NICHOLSON — He  was  the  kind  of  man  one  loves  at 
sight.  I  have  rarely  known  anyone  who  appealed  to  me  as  he  did. 
There  was  an  infinite  sweetness  and  gentleness  in  him,  and  he  was 
so  clean  of  soul,  so  fine  and  manly  a  character. 

EDWARD  W.  BOK — It  seems  to  me  that  he  had  just  begun  his 
work,  and  the  world  of  readers  needed  his  inimitable  wit  so  much. 
I  looked  upon  him  as  one  of  the  few  writers  of  true  humor  of  the 
day,  and  was  so  happy  to  have  him  at  work  for  us. 

CARL  VROOMAN — My  all  too  brief  acquaintance  with  him  was  a 
joy  from  the  beginning.  His  fresh  and  unspoiled  individuality 
shone  out  in  his  every  action  and  spoken  word  as  it  did  in  his  writ- 
ings. There  are  few  men  of  whom  I  have  ever  been  able  to  say  that 
they  were  lovable,  and  George  was  one  of  these  few.  Little  as  we 
have  been  together,  I  counted  him  among  my  choicest  and  best  loved 
friends. 

WILL  LEVINGTON  COMFORT — I  loved  him — loved  to  be  with 
him.  We  could  not  talk  long — a  strange  shyness  came  over  us — as 
if  we  would  have  to  talk  years  if  we  ever  began  right.  But  there 
were  volumes  of  unspoken  things  which  we  felt. 

VACHEL  LINDSAY — When  last  I  was  in  the  East,  George  was 
passing  through  New  York  and  came  to  see  me,  and  that  was  our 
last  meeting.  We  had  a  most  fraternal  time — and  I  think  I  shall 
remember  him  by  that  call — and  I  hope  our  paths  will  cross  again, 
in  some  further  places  now  hid  by  the  dimness.  And  I  remember 
him  most  of  all  in  your  own  home  where  all  was  most  happy,  with 
his  children  on  his  knees.  We  had  fine  hours  together  there. 

MRS.  KELLOGG  FAIRBANKS — It  is  impossible  for  me  to  realize 
that  that  wonderfully  vital  and  bright  spirit  is  gone,  and  1  feel  that 
the  whole  country  is  the  poorer  for  it. 


He  who  attempts  to  write  an  appreciation  of  the  life  and  char- 
acter of  George  Fitch  is  forcibly  impressed  with  the  poverty  of  the 
English  language.  One  almost  wishes  for  a  fourth  degree  of  com- 
parison with  which  to  describe  adequately  the  nobleness  of  character 
of  this  man — Sigma  Delta  Chi's  most  beloved  member — of  whom 
Franklin  P.  Adams,  of  the  New  York  Tribune,  wrote:  "Never  in 
the  world  a  sweeter,  saner,  more  generous  and  lovable  human  being." 

George  Fitch,  one  of  the  best  known  of  the  younger  school  of 
American  humorists,  died  in  Berkeley,  Cal.,  August  9,  1915,  having 
failed  to  rally  from  an  operation  for  appendicitis  performed  two  days 
before.  He  had  been  visiting  his  sister,  Miss  R.  Louise  Fitch,  and 
planned  to  visit  the  Panama-Pacific  exposition  at  San  Francisco, 
and  to  attend  the  annual  convention  of  the  American  Press  Humor- 
ists' Association.  He  was  born  June  5,  1877,  at  Galva,  111.,  and  was 
the  son  of  Elmer  Eli  and  Rachel  (Helgesen)  Fitch.  In  1897  he  was 
graduated  from  Knox  College  at  Galesburg,  111.,  where  he  not  only 
made  a  good  record  as  a  student  but  also  obtained  the  inspiration  for 
his  famous  "Siwash"  tales. 

Mr.  Fitch  began  his  newspaper  career  in  1897  on  the  Galesburg 
Evening  Mail  and  then  went  to  edit  the  Galva  News.  After  a  ses- 
sion at  Madison,  111.,  he  served  from  1902  to  1905  as  a  special  writer 
on  the  Council  Bluffs  (la.)  Nonpareil,  and  began  to  specialize  in 
humorous  paragraphs  that  made  him  famous  locally.  His  last  news- 
paper was  the  Peoria  (111.)  Herald-Transcript,  where  he  was  botli 
managing  editor  and  feature  writer,  and  where  his  fame  became 
more  than  local.  In  1912  he  was  elected  to  the  Illinois  House  of 
Representatives.  It  was  in  September,  1911,  that  Mr.  Fitch  joined 
the  staff  of  the  Adams  Newspaper  Service,  where  he  created  his 
"Vest  Pocket  Essays,"  which  have  probably  given  him  his  greatest 
popularity  as  a  humorist,  and  which  have  appeared  in  approxi- 
mately 150  newspapers  a  day  ever  since.  He  was  married  October 
5,  1905,  to  Miss  Clara  Gattrell  Lynn,  of  Kansas  City,  Mo.,  who  sur- 
vives him,  with  three  little  girls. 

Members  of  Sigma  Delta  Chi  who  attended  the  May,  1914,  con- 
vention at  Ann  Arbor  will  always  remember  the  speech  that  Mr. 
Fitch  made  in  which  he  told  the  story  of  his  life.  Those  who  had 
the  good  fortune  to  have  heard  that  talk  know  that  it  was  his  gen- 
uineness that  made  him  such  a  beloved  man.  As  Edgar  A.  Guest,  of 
Detroit,  said:  "To  have  known  George  Fitch  was  to  have  known 
how  splendid  may  be  man." 

—From  "The  Quill"  for  October,  1915 

45 


VICTOR  MURDOCH — Altogether  I  did  not  spend  probably  as 
much  as  twelve  hours  with  him  during  all  the  time  I  have  known 
him,  but  every  minute  of  that  time  was  vibrant  and  vivid  with  un- 
derstanding— the  keen  attuning  that  makes  all  common  activity  so 
material  and  understanding  so  high  and  fine,  and  belief  in  the  in- 
finite so  restfully  certain.  It  makes  my  thought  poor  to  give  it 
words,  but  I  know  he  lives,  as  fine,  as  clean,  as  pure  and  bright 
somewhere  as  here. 

MEDILL  McCoRMicx — Of  all  of  my  friends  who  are  gone,  there 
live  in  my  memory  vivid,  vital,  dear  personalities  a  woman  a  good 
deal  older  than  myself,  Richard  Mansfield,  and  George.  I  never 
think  of  him  (and  that  is  often)  without  poignant  affection. 

LEONARD  H.  ROBBINS — He  possessed  all  the  qualities  that  made 
Mark  Twain ;  and  he  had  more — a  fineness  that  Clemens  lacked.  It 
is  very  hard  for  us  to  understand  why  he  had  to  go  away  from  a 
career  so  surely  made,  a  success  so  cleanly  won,  and  a  world  that 
needed  him  so  badly. 

WILLIAM  ALLEN  WHITE — I  had  come  to  be  very  fond  of  George 
Fitch  and  his  loss  affected  me  like  the  loss  of  a  brother.  I  have  felt 
lonesomer  in  the  world  since  he  left. 

GEORGE  MATTHEW  ADAMS — It  all  seems  so  unreal,  but  it  is  a 
great  comfort  as  one  thinks  about  it  all,  that  George  did  not  leave 
anything  but  the  finest  that  was  in  him  and  that  his  friends  will  long 
live  off  of  this  rich  heritage. 

MARK  SULLIVAN,  in  Collier's  Weekly — George  Fitch  died  the 
other  day.  Magazine  subscribers  knew  him  as  the  author  of  the 
Siwash  stories  and  of  playful  bits  of  American  humor.  Newspaper 
readers  all  over  the  country  knew  him  as  the  source  of  the  "Vest- 
Pocket  Essays"  which  could  be  read  while  the  taste  of  the  last  swal- 
low of  breakfast  coffee  lingered.  Back  in  his  home  town  of  Peoria 
citizens  knew  him  as  an  editor  of  a  daily  paper  and  a  member  of  the 
Illinois  legislature  who  put  a  good  heart  as  well  as  a  good  head  into 
the  service  of  the  people.  Acquaintances  knew  him  as  a  young  man 
with  a  taste  for  cruising  up  and  down  middle-western  rivers ;  but 
many  of  us  will  want  to  remember  him  as  a  successful  writer  who 
remained  unaffected — who,  in  a  day  when  too  many  authors  adopt 
codes  of  special-privilege  morals,  kept  his  work  out  of  intellectual 
marshes  and  for  himself  preferred  the  clean  air  of  decent  altitudes. 

EDW.  H.  BUTLER,  in  the  Buffalo  News — For  a  half  dozen  years 
George  Fitch  has  been  the  nation's  foremost  humorist.  His  fun  was 

46 


more  typically  American  than  the  product  of  any  other  man  and 
back  of  his  laughing  lines  was  a  wholesome  philosophy  that  made 
life  sweet  for  some  who  found  it  bitter. 

To  a  greater  degree  than  any  man  we  know  he  fulfilled  life's 
mission  which  he  himself  always  declared!  to  be:  "To  do  one  thing 
worth  while  and  do  it  better  than  any  other  person  can  do  it." 

His  Siwash  College  stories  portrayed  college  pranks  in  a  whole- 
some way,  robbed  them  of  college  caste  and  gave  to  each  character 
the  lovable  qualities  of  the  real  college  youth.  His  motor  boat  stor- 
ies amused  thousands  and  his  Homeburg  tales  were  intensely  human 
to  people  familiar  with  small  community  life. 

Unlike  most  men  buried  in  books,  George  Fitch  found  time  to 
be  an  aggressively  good  citizen.  As  editor  of  the  Peoria  Transcript, 
he  conducted  and  aided  some  of  Illinois'  most  memorable  fights  for 
good  government.  His  campaigns  were  without  bitterness  and  with- 
out sting,  but  he  employed,  to  great  advantage,  his  wonderful  power 
to  make  a  joke  carry  the  truth. 

The  death  of  George  Fitch  is  untimely — he  was  not  yet  forty 
years  of  age.  The  world  has  not  enough  men  of  his  kind. 

T.  K.  HEDRICK,  in  the  Chicago  Daily  News — While  the  states 
are  taking  stock  of  their  great  men,  Illinois  should  not  forget  the  late 
George  Fitch,  gentle  and  lovable  humorist,  inimitable  story  teller, 
cheerful  and  kindly  reformer  and  faithful  friend  to  thousands.  Prob- 
ably no  Illinoisan  has  brought  more  cheer  and  hopefulness  into  more 
lives  than  "good  old  George" — rest  his  soul! — and  in  many  ways  he 
qualifies  for  any  hall  of  fame  that  Illinois  may  elect  to  establish. 

KIN  HUBBARD  (Abe  Martin) — In  these  days  of  coarse  fun  and 
far-fetched  nonsense  George  Fitch  could  ill  be  spared  from  the 
dwindling  ranks  of  real  American  humorists,  of  which  he  was  per- 
haps the  most  shining  prospect. 

A.  A.  BOYDEN,  the  American  Magazine — I  first  remember 
George  Fitch  when  he  came  to  Knox  Academy.  Later  he  joined  the 
same  fraternity  I  belonged  to,  so  I  felt  as  if  I  knew  him  pretty  well. 
But  the  interesting  point  is  that  I  did  not  know  him  at  all.  It  was 
not  until  ten  or  twelve  years  later  when  he  first  became  contributor 
to  the  American  Magazine  that  I  got  any  sense  of  what  an  extraor- 
dinary person  he  was.  And  it  was  not  I,  but  Mr.  Siddall,  one  of 
my  associates,  who  started  George  in  the  American  Magazine.  Ver- 
ily a  prophet  is  not  without  honor,  etc.  George  Fitch's  pictures  of 
the  small  towns  of  the  middle  west  ought  to  live  along  with  John 

47 


McCutcheon's  "Bird  Center"  cartoons.  All  of  us  who  are  natives  of 
these  same  small  towns  will  always  take  off  our  hats  to  these  two 
geniuses. 

HENRY  M.  PINDELL,  Peoria  Journal — A  number  of  well-mean- 
ing commentators  have  essayed  to  pay  George  Fitch  a  kindly  compli- 
ment in  statements  to  the  effect  that  the  Fitch  wit  was  "always  with- 
out a  sting."  George  did  have  a  quality  of  humor,  which  he  used 
copiously  in  his  fiction,  that  was  stingless  and  kindly.  Humor  is 
essentially  gentle  and  playful,  but  George  Fitch  was  more  than  a 
writer  of  humor,  he  was  one  of  the  keenest  satirists  of  his  time. 
And  when  he  shot  a  shaft  at  some  sham  or  evil  that  needed  punctur- 
ing he  shot  a  stinger — and  it  stung  as  it  was  meant  to.  There  is  no 
contemporary  American  who  excels  George  Fitch  as  a  master  of 
keen,  penetrating  sarcasm. 

WILLIAM  HAWLEY  SMITH,  Peoria — I  need  not  say  that  the  pass- 
ing of  George  Fitch  leaves  a  void  in  my  heart  which  will  long  stay 
unfilled.  Next  to  Bill  Nye,  I  counted  him  the  greatest  among  mod- 
ern humorists.  He  could  puncture  a  sham  and  leave  the  shammer 
alive  and  purged  of  his  sin  to  the  extent  he  would  go  and  sin  no 
more.  And  such  is  the  mission  of  a  real  humorist.  Such  was  George. 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY — Even  while  we  smiled  and  laughed 
with  him,  he  left  us,  hushed  as  though  awaiting  the  gladness  of  his 
return.  Only  heaven  is  the  brighter  now. — Indianapolis,  August  21, 
1915. 

"On  the  death  of  its  charter  member,  George  Fitch,  the  Society 
of  Midland  Authors  has  suffered  a  grievous  loss.  He  was  loved  for 
himself  and  for  his  work ;  for  his  high  attitude  toward  life,  which 
was  filled  with  sweetness  and  expectancy,  and  for  his  humor,  which 
was  without  bitterness. 

"Charged  by  the  society  with  the  expression  of  its  sentiments, 
the  undersigned  herewith  convey  to  Mrs.  Fitch,  the  brother  and  sis- 
ter sympathy  of  all  its  members. 

"BERT  LESTON  TAYLOR 
"ELLA  \V.  PEATTIE 
"CLARA  E.  LAUGHLIN 
"H.  C.  CHATFIELD-TAYLOR" 


48 


One  Fitck  Memorial  at  Knox 

When  George  Fitch  died  in  August,  1915,  Knox  College  lost  one 
of  her  most  widely  known  and  most  loyal  alumni.  From  more  than 
one  of  his  old  college  associates  came  the  suggestion  that  some  ap- 
propriate memorial  should  be  established  at  the  institution  which 
was  the  inspiration  of  his  early  literary  ambitions,  and  in  close  con- 
nection with  the  student  life  upon  which  he  has  drawn  so  liberally 
for  his  Siwash  stories. 

George  Fitch's  interest  in  his  college  and  its  undergraduate  life 
did  not  cease  with  his  own  graduation  in  1897,  but  increased  with 
the  yeajjs.  It  was  an  interest  that  was  positive  and  substantial.  He 
entered  with  enthusiasm  into  the  plans  for  a  larger  and  greater 
Knox.  In  June,  1914,  he  accepted  the  presidency  of  the  Knox 
Alumni  Association,  intent  upon  furthering  in  every  possible  way 
the  interest  of  his  Alma  Mater.  One  very  definite  purpose  was  the 
development  of  the  Knox  College  Library,  a  purpose  which  found 
expression  in  his  purchase  and  donation  of  a  collection  of  books 
dealing  principally  with  American  history. 

Therefore,  when  the  further  suggestion  was  made  that  the  Fitch 
Memorial  at  Knox  might  appropriately  take  the  form  of  an  endow- 
ment of  $50,000  for  the  College  Library,  the  idea  received  immed- 
iate and  general  approval,  as  well  as  the  endorsement  of  Mrs.  Fitch. 

The  Knox  students  were  the  first  to  respond.  In  less  than  a 
week  the  four  college  classes  subscribed  nearly  $10,000  as  a  foun- 
dation for  the  fund.  Subsequent  subscriptions  by  members  of  the 
faculty  and  others  secured  by  the  students  among  their  friends  have 
brought  this  amount  to  $15,000.  The  Knox  Alumni  Association  has 
undertaken  the  completion  of  the  fund. 


49 


George  Fitcn 

By  WILLIAM  ALLEN  WHITE 

"He  came  and  laughed  and  went  his  way, 
Lending  something  to  the  day 

That  flashed  as  with  a  mystic  light — 
Something  wise  and  kind  and  gay. 

So  when  he  went  into  the  night 
Out  beyond  our  mortal  sight, 
Lo !  he  left  us  with  his  clay 
God's  joy  flashing  from  the  height." 


50 


,nox  College  and  me  Alumni1  Association 
;  «3  :          :          :      Galesburg.  Illinois 

William  E.  Simonds  and  M.  Max  Goodsill 

Entered  as  Second  Class  Matter  at  tne  Post  Office  at 
Calesburg,  Illinois 


